Your Metal Spine
by leave your sanity at the door
Summary: Play with fire and get burned. CCB employee Talar Sampson isn't beautiful or popular, but she is unafraid to step outside her comfort zone. Landing a job on Earth at a remote CCB outpost, she falls foul of a certain South African mercenary. An intense, twisted relationship develops between them, threatening to destroy everything she has ever known. KRUGER/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**author's note:**

First and foremost, I want to extend the hand of gratitude to anyone and everyone reading this fic. It's such a shame that the Elysium fic-dom is so painfully untapped ('cos I'd tap it, huh), and I hope that my contribution won't disappoint. I extend the other hand (I'm starting to resemble Moses parting the waves now..well, gesture-wise) of thanks to Nik216 and InvisibleRanger, and ma homiez the Germiston Chicks (ok, just had to let my inner rapper out for a moment; you can come back now), all of whose advice and support have proved invaluable in the writing of this story.

Secondly, if you've read any of my other stories you'll know I'm a fan of disclaimers and long author's notes. This story will be no different. There are going to be numerous pretty contentious racial, political and ethical elements which I feel it only fair to explain beforehand, so as not to end up offending anyone. I hasten to add that none of said elements represent my own views or opinions, but are merely a reflection of the characters'.

Thirdly, I've had to take a few liberties with the canon, and real life history. When researching for this story I encountered several inconsistencies between the film's merchandise and PR and the film itself, especially in respect of Kruger's rap sheet. For this reason I decided it wouldn't be such a heinous crime to base my story _around_ these things rather than adhere rigidly to them. Sweeties to those who spot the real life events referenced.

And finally, if somehow you missed the synopsis and have come here for something cute, fluffy and affectionate, please know that this story is not a baby teacup pomeranian. In fact, it's about as far from that as things can get. This is old Krugez (as I like to call him) we're talking about; his sexual encounters with females may not all be non-consensual on the female's part, but he's not exactly a shining beacon of humanity either. The only 'romance' will be smut, and things are going to get very dark and twisted where that's concerned.

So, one final warning: if you are easily offended by strong political, cultural or religious views; graphic content; copious amounts of foul language; and dom-sub relationships, you'd best leave now. Otherwise, COME ON IN!

I own nothing. Elysium and its characters depicted therein are Copyright of Neill Blomkamp.

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**CHAPTER 1**

It didn't matter, did it? Whether it was due to bravery, stupidity or lunacy, if you played with fire you got burned, and burning was the most painful way to die. That was what Talar Sampson thought as she seated herself in front of the vast mahogany desk of the Civil Cooperation Bureau's main interview room. Andrew Chisholm, the longest standing CCB employee stationed on Earth, had discovered this literally when an altercation with a group of civilians had gotten out of hand a week ago. What had compelled him first of all to venture into a local town, and then wade in amongst the great unwashed masses and try and break up a fight, had ended up getting him doused with petrol and set alight. He was a good man, tough and dedicated enough to hold the fort down there amongst the Earth-based agents, but damn if he hadn't lost his mind that final night.

She had met him at several functions, his company welcome relief from the trussed-up cesspool of schmoozery and fakery in which the other employees of the CCB so happily frolicked. Having never excelled at the finer arts of social navigation, Talar had witnessed others far below her level of competence advance within the organisation, simply because they could look and act the part. It was a wonder she had managed to land a job there in the first place, let alone keep it. Barely a week in and the façade she had so meticulously constructed – the gregarious, savvy and thick-skinned antithesis of everything she was - fell apart, and it had all gone downhill from there. Six years later, the 28-year-old wondered why she had ever tried at all. Still, she had Yasmin - renegade manager of the Bureau's CCTV control room, and one of the few non whites employed by the organization, whose quirkiness and vivacity never failed to brighten the long, mundane days – and had at least found temporary solace in Andrew Chisholm.

75 years he had worked on Earth, fulfilling a role invented out of sheer bureaucracy and sustained with funds that could eradicate world debt in less than a year. A ludicrous, utterly dispensable job that could easily have been incorporated into existing agents' daily duties on the space station, or at the very least fulfilled by admin droids. Nevertheless, it had earned him a pretty penny, and after a mere 15 years – the blink of an eye in a society in which 200 wasn't uncommon - would have escalated him to top tier status in the organisation had he decided to return home permanently.

"Frankly," he had confided in her, a wry glint in his eyes, "I prefer it down there."

The irony hadn't been lost on her. Renouncing the world of have's to dwell in that of have-not's, after the arduous struggle such have-not's routinely undertook to reach the have's (although the vast majority of them were intercepted en route) was close to heresy.

Yet, ever since meeting him, that had been her dream. If she wasn't going to get ahead the traditional way, the social way, she would damn well wait it out until he resigned and do it the socially-isolated way; prove her mettle by working long and hard in a place most Elysians were loath to even visit.

She had never expected it to occur so soon, though. In the gilded cage that was the interview room, Talar knew the job would be hers, if only for the fact that few others wanted to do it. Less than few; none. Yasmin had told her of the panic behind the scenes the day after Chisholm had been killed. Bureaucracy required a CCB representative on Earth, and if no-one volunteered then someone would have to be elected against their will. The brief flash of relief in the Human Resource Manager's eyes when Talar had turned up for the interview said it all; the election would have been a complete lottery, and it could have been his backside getting hauled down there.

Today's charade, merely for keeping up appearances, was the second round, and it was a full day affair. Talar had no idea what to expect, which in all honesty was just how she liked it. Her half Armenian genes weren't the problem, but at only 5'4/162cm, and a rather 'weighty' 150lbs/68kg, she stuck out a mile from the willowy beauty of most CCB females. Neither did she have their effortless grace or haughty refinement. In the presence of all these sleek thoroughbreds, she felt like a plain, slow draught horse. What she did possess was a love of challenges, a readiness to step outside her comfort zone, and an ability to think on her feet. Working in the lower echelons of admin permitted few opportunities to demonstrate these qualities, but she had made sure to utilise them whenever the situation arose, garnering various accolades – although never promotions – from her superiors. Even Defense Secretary Delacourt – "Ms. D", the "Big D" or the "IceMare", as she was affectionately dubbed by her minions - had praised her, once... in writing, of course; actual tangible paper, handed to her by the organization's chief Mailperson and Dogsbody in General.

She had to admit, though, that one challenge she certainly wouldn't relish would be to work under that ice maiden's scrutiny for an entire day, and it was the only thing that kept a modicum of panic skipping around in her stomach. Yasmin had joked that, because it was a process so infrequently conducted, the interview for Earth Staff Manager could involve literally anything: "Even the IceMare might sit in on it!" she had cracked. Unlikely though it was, the thought had stuck, and Talar was wearing a sanitary towel just in case.

Dieter Lang, Manager of Human Resources, settled into the plush leather chair. He adjusted his glasses – an item Talar presumed he could only wear to affect erudition, as medbays cured all imperfections besides the psychological – before placing a briefcase on the table.

Once more, Talar caught that same flash of relief in the blond man's blue eyes. As long as she did nothing deranged to jeopardize her chances, she had a feeling she was going to ace this. Unless Delacourt showed up, that was.

The look of relief swiftly faded, to be replaced by the ever conventional introductory smile.

"First of all, Ms. Sampson," he said, "we would like to congratulate you on making the second round. We believe you're a strong candidate for the position."

Well trained in the art of bullshittery, Talar thought. Standard at the CCB.

"Today's interview is going to be quite unconventional, so, permit me to cut straight to the chase. We are in no doubt you have the administrative skills and the enthusiasm for the job. Nor do we doubt you have the commitment. Your interpersonal skills are fine-"

*_Oh, you should see me at garden parties,_* Talar thought sardonically.

"What we need to ascertain today is how comfortable you'll be working down there effectively alone, and coming into contact with our assets on a daily basis; because as you yourself know, Ms Sampson, we are a vast and broad organization, with agents of all specialities in a variety of fields. All but a select few of these agents have been recruited from Earth, and many of them have, shall we say, less than salubrious pasts. This is of course the price we pay for paradise. Do you follow so far?"

Talar gave a curt nod, replying "Yes Sir." She knew precisely what he meant. It was no secret amongst CCB employees that their organization sourced hardened criminals for guard dog duty, although the identities of these people were off limits to most except the most senior.

"You already know you will be processing and handling these agents' assignments. You know you will meet many of them-"

"They fly in from all over the world," Talar recalled Chisholm remarking. "Aircars, Fulgar shuttles, Ravens, Raptors; averaging transonic speeds. But come on; it's the 22nd Century and we give them one club, just one club, in Nevada? Still, my bank account is hardly complaining!"

"-But what we need to know is if there is any doubt, in your mind, that you will be capable of working with them. We've compiled a dossier, ranking the 100 most active ones – the ones you're most likely to meet - from cleanest, to..." he hesitated, then completed the sentence with an open-palmed explanatory gesture. "Simply go through it today – take as long as you feel you need – and then tell me, in no uncertain terms, what you think. We are not monitoring your heart rate, your temperature, or your stress levels. We won't submit you for a New Polygraph. We want absolute honesty from you: do you think you can work with these people, yes or no. Do you understand?"

Talar nodded again, repeated the compulsory "Yes Sir."

"And I'm sure I don't need to remind you that everything you read in here does not go beyond these walls."

It wasn't a question. Talar repeated herself reverently for the third time.

Lang popped open the briefcase and produced a tablet computer, which he switched on, swiped, and handed to Talar.

"I'm leaving this with you in here," he continued. "Again, take as long as you feel you need. The only requirement is that you finish before the end of the working day. When you _do_ finish, please buzz me; likewise if you would like a break. There are pens and paper in the desk drawer if you wish to make notes, or if you'd prefer to make them electronically you may open a new document in the tablet. If you want anything to drink or eat, simply buzz the canteen. And you know where the toilets are. Is that OK?"

"That's fine thank you Sir."

"Good. I'll see you later then."

With that, Lang promptly stood up and vacated the room, the electronic door opening and closing with a pleasing 'swoosh'.

*_That's it?!_* Talar thought incredulously, looking at the yellow dossier icon that read: "Area 20. Contents: 100 files". She could get through that in 3 hours. Could there be a catch? There had to be. Unless the contents of the dossier were utterly horrifying, there was no way she would say no.

But that was precisely it: they were so desperate to fill the position, perhaps they didn't want her to say no, or couldn't even afford for her to say no? Conversely, what if the contents truly were so horrifying, so nerve-shreddingly awful that she would have to spend the rest of the working day evaluating her decision? Then again, could it be any worse than what she already knew? What was more, as these agents' superior, even the worst of them would pose no threat to her lest they be immediately discharged. The job entailed working in the office of a subterranean venue in the middle of a faux industrial complex out in the Nevada desert, as the CCB's Earth-based staff manager, with only droids for company. The venue doubled as a bar staffed by droids for the agents, with whom the staff manager was, technically, at liberty to fraternize during their breaks... although such a thing was implicitly frowned upon. Most of these people were, after all, from Earth. But as insalubrious as they were, none had ever dared cause trouble for their seniors. Chisholm had never encountered a problem, so he had said, and neither had the three employees before him, all of whom had left due to boredom as opposed to stress or anxiety.

So, realistically, there was nothing to worry about, right?

*_Well, I'll soon find out!_*

The summary bar at the bottom of the dossier read: 100 agents. 97 Earth born. 81 male. 19 female. Talar toyed with the idea of jumping straight to the end to see who the worst was, but restrained herself and began at the beginning. The first thirty, to which the three Elysian-born agents belonged, were ludicrously easy; no criminal records or black marks against their names. The next sixteen were also no problem, with only the occasional minor infraction such as arriving late for a scheduled operation, or getting into a minor fracas with civs or each other. From 47, things started getting heavier - petty criminals, fraudsters, ex gang members, minor hackers – but whose records were otherwise clean since their recruitment into the Bureau.

It was at 71 when the real bad guys – and two bad girls - began to emerge. Career criminals, gang leaders, pimps, human traffickers, militia men, religious extremists, extortionists, murderers; although still, mainly clean records since conscription, save for the odd GBH against civs. At 79 there was a Russian empress of a narcotics empire who it was alleged was behind the murders of half the country's journalists and spies. At 82, a female Yakuza boss with an Olypmic-sized pool of blood on her hands. At 83 was a white, ex South African Air Force fighter pilot by the name of C. T. Crowe (no first or middle names were given in any agent's files) who had spent 10 years incarcerated for his part in a plot to murder a prominent South African politician. Clean since conscription, though. Number 85 was also a white South African – an ex SANDF (South African National Defense Force) sniper named R. B. Drake – convicted as part of an arms trafficking ring that supplied weapons in conflicts against Russia. Also clean since conscription, save three episodes of grievous bodily harm against civilians.

Talar read on, her eyes widening a few times as she contemplated just how scandalous it was for people such as these to be on a 'respected' institution's payroll. Welcome to the Big Bad World, little girl. Welcome to Earth: the place that keeps Elysium spic and span.

They widened further when she came across two Italian serial rapists and ex drug barons at 88 and 89, identical twin brothers who, after having extensive plastic surgery, were now employed as gang infiltrators in New York and New Jersey. At 90 there was a serial paedophile from Venezuela, whose notes described him as "claiming to be a decent person, but with one problem", who lead a team monitoring the rampant drug cartel business in Mexico.

91 through 95 were black South Africans from the Numbers gang – a South Africa-wide prison gang even Talar had heard of, having learned about them in her school Anti-Social Studies class - who were said to be one of the most feared in the world. All in for brutal murder and offences against the fairer sex, and kept in for murder, rape and torture within the prisons. Each had rung up several repeat offences, including rape of minors, since recruitment. Charming. 96 through 98: more white South Africans, ex military, also involved in assassination plots, drug smuggling and arms trafficking.

Talar shook her head in dismay. She had known some the CCB's assets were bad, but some of these guys seemed like downright liabilities. She dreaded to think what the final two's rap sheets would look like.

99 was a baby-faced young man, seemingly no older than his late teens, from Lithuania, whose elite hacking skills had brought down the New World Government's entire security system, and released hundreds of thousands of confidential documents onto the internet. Not even one infraction since, though; a crime like that was enough to last a lifetime. In the eyes of authorities, all the murders and rapes and traffickings in the whole world couldn't amount to the sheer chaos brought about by humiliating a government. Needless to say, he was now working in intelligence. Talar was surprised he was even still alive.

She paused, taking a deep breath as her finger scrolled to the final file. Something shot through her – a heady mix of anticipation, excitement, and what she was loathe to admit was actual trepidation.

*_OK you_,* she said to herself, *_Mama's gon' get-chuu_*. It was what Yasmin would say to her, before picking up a spider that Talar had begged her to come round and remove. Talar wasn't genuinely frightened by many things, but spiders were her nemesis. Whoever's idea it was to let those creatures onto the Elysium-bound Arc should have been shot.

And then she realised, with sickening certainty, that she had been trembling. It was the thought of spiders, yeah. Just the spiders. Or perhaps it was the prospect of being so shocked by what she would find, that she wouldn't be able to accept the job.

No. No-one had ever bothered her would-be predecessors, and they would have no reason to bother her... other than the fact that she was female. She would hedge a sizeable bet on most of the worst guys being misogynists. Misogyny notwithstanding, another thing she would hedge was that they valued their jobs. So, _logically_, there was no reason to worry.

One more deep breath, just for good luck.

The first thing Talar noticed about the bearded, hawkish-featured Mr. C. M. Kruger – aka Agent 32 Alpha 21b – was that, where the rap sheets of even the worst of his contemporaries had at best two pages, he had three. Three; one of which looked to be an in-depth report. Oh dear. For a man of this calibre to continue working for the Bureau, he had to be extremely valuable. His location was listed as 'worldwide', and his section 'immigration' after which there was an asterisk. Running a scan for said asterisk revealed it in the microscopic print at the bottom of the first page, where it simply said "refer to File 92z: subsection 41". Typical; if there was even the slightest excuse to work more bureaucracy into the equation, the hotshots at the CCB would find it. It was part of the organization's lifeblood, and they were like sharks who could smell but a mere drop of it in the water a mile away.

D.O.B: 9/19/1970. Height: 182cm/5'11. Weight: 81kg/180lb. Hair: brown. Eyes: blue. Distinguishing marks/scars/tattoos/piercings: none. Nationality: South African. Ethnicity: mixed (Caucasian and Germanic) . Religion: atheist. Active since: 2007.

Anthropological-Ethnic Studies had taught Talar that authorities used to refer to vast swathes of peoples as 'Caucasian', using the term interchangeably with 'white', but had dispensed with such a custom long before she was born. 'Caucasian' used to be such a misleading word, and they had been right to dispense with its former usage, as it could not in her opinion be used interchangeably with 'white'. Her mother was of Armenian ethnicity, and dark complexioned, with jet black hair, deep brown eyes, and tan olive skin; ethnically Indo-European (which used to fall under 'Caucasian') and from the Caucasus, but certainly not 'white'. It seemed grossly inaccurate to put a platinum-haired, blue-eyed and cream-skinned Northern European in the same category. Equally inaccurate to think that Armenians and the mostly dark-complexioned groups from the Caucasus used to deem themselves the 'true' whites; and that the term 'Aryan', which also denoted people from the Caucasus region, was misappropriated by the Nazis to denote that specific Nordic look.

Nowadays, classification was more specific. The term 'white' – although never used in official documentation - referred to those such Northern European types, and anyone with a similarly pale, peach or pink-hued skin tone, irrespective of eye color. 'Caucasian' meant literally from the Caucasus: Abkhaz; Circasian; Georgian; Dagestani; Veinakh. And 'Germanic', which used to refer more to languages than ethnicities, now generally meant 'white' from Afrikaner/ Austrian/ Danish/ Dutch/ English/ Icelandic/ German/ Norwegian/ Swedish extraction.

She smiled wistfully, remembering how her teachers in Anthropological-Ethnic Studies had hammered such distinctions into their students with an almost militant forcefulness, which had come to earn those teachers the nickname "drill sergeants", like the type represented in Military Studies. It was Elysium's way of honoring its Old Society origins. The fact that the majority of Elysians were indeed 'white' and originally of Western or Northern European extraction, did not excuse forgetting the world it had left behind, the drill sergeants had said.

Judging by his surname, she presumed the Caucasian was on his mother's side; although stranger things had been known to happen, she was sure. He could equally have been raised by his mother and never known his father. He could have been adopted. She studied the man's photo, wondering precisely where his mother had originated from. The precise distinctions between the groups evaded her, but she remembered enough to know that the particular looks could often overlap. Plus, being mixed obviously made such identification more difficult. Never mind. Going on what she remembered about South African history – which, truthfully, wasn't much - the Germanic must have been from Germany or Holland originally; although, as her 1st generation Elysian, Anglophone South African school friend Michelle Geldenhuis could attest to, his surname didn't necessarily mean he was an Afrikaner. Many white 'English' South Africans originated from Afrikaner stock, she had said, but renounced their language and culture in order to appear more culturally progressive, and retained their family name as a badge of honor to show how far they had come.

She read on.

Ex SANDF Sergeant Major of the South African Army aka Senior Chief Warrant Officer (SWCO). Talar had no clue what that was, or why the terms were synonymous; only that it was obviously a high enough rank.

His pre-CCB crimes, which were committed during his service in the military, were listed as operating a weapons trafficking business integral to the funding and support of crimes against Russia; murder of two high ranking SANDF officers and the attempted murder of another; assassination of two South African politicians; assassination of a controversial South African journalist; assassination of two leading Russian journalists; and plots to assassinate several more notorious figures, two of them Russian. Damn, this guy _really_ didn't like the Russians. Then again, outside of Russia, many people didn't. It, like the USA, was one of those highly divisive countries that it wasn't unusual to either love or hate. Even today, they were still the biggest powers in the world, both seemingly considering themselves the center of it if the media were to be believed. Suffice it to say, a decent number of Elysians were from those countries, Talar's own parents being American born. Yet, despite the detractors – of which there were many - she couldn't bring herself to entirely despise the country that had granted them the opportunity to earn a one way ticket to the most exclusive habitat in the universe. She was proud of her origins, if only for that reason.

2/17/05: sentenced to life imprisonment without parole, in C-Max Penitentiary, Pretoria.

5/25/05: Escaped by coating self with petroleum jelly and sliding through cell bars. 3 wardens and 2 guards linked to the escape later dismissed.

6/10/05: Caught and arrested at Port Elizabeth Airport following nationwide search. Immediate transferral to Kokstad Super Maximum Security prison, KwaZulu-Natal.

Talar snorted back a laugh. This was crazy. Utterly crazy. Almost too absurd to be believed...

...which was evidently why the CCB had snapped him up.

Since recruitment in 2006, his crimes turned even nastier. Two occasions of kidnapping targets, one of which culminated in the target's rape, torture and murder; three other counts of raping targets, two of which involved torture; three counts, all of unnecessary force and gratuitous pyromania against targets; grievous bodily harm against a fellow male agent; assault and battery of another fellow male agent, with subsequent misappropriation of said agent's resources; and finally, two counts of misappropriation of military resources. A whopping twenty one offences in total. Talar wondered if any of them had been against Russians.

But Jesus Tap-dancing Mohawk-Haired Christ on Mount Ararat...

To his dubious credit, though, none of his CCB era crimes were against 'innocent' civilians or his superiors; so were she ever to meet this man in person, misogynist or not (although it was now all but confirmed that he was...assuming the raped targets were female), he most probably wouldn't dare lay a finger on her. No, make that 'definitely wouldn't' - she couldn't let herself believe otherwise. Furthermore, his last offence – misappropriation of military resources – was committed 40 years ago, and the last incidence of rape in 2092. Since 2104, his record was spotless – his longest dry spell yet – so whatever was being done to rein in his ultra criminal tendencies, it was obviously proving effective. That, or he had found better people to cover his tracks. Truth be told, the latter wouldn't have surprised her – if a maximum amount of offences were permitted, yet his services were vital enough for Delacourt to want to keep him, the French Canadian alpha she-wolf would do everything in her power to make that possible. And power she had. An abundance of it.

Time to move onto the report.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN**

As mentioned in my previous AN, for the sake of this story working I've had to play around with parts of the canon. So be aware, change is 'a comin, folks! Please refer to the AN at the end of this chapter for further explanation.

A shorter chapter this time, but hopefully with enough hooks to pull you through. The action starts kicking off in Chapter 3.

Thanks to my wonderful aides, Nik216, InvisibleRanger, and the Germiston Chicks.

I own nothing.

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**CHAPTER 2**

Yasmin Harandi screamed, launching herself at her younger friend. She threw her arms around the poor girl, squeezing her tight.

"Oh my lil' bubba!" she cried elatedly in her Southern drawl, despite Talar being only 2 years younger; in name, at least. Yasmin had been 30 for a good two decades. "My lil bubba's going to Earth! You have no idea how proud I am of you! Aarrrgggh, come and sit down and tell me aaaalllllll about it!"

She relinquished her strangle-hold hug. Excitedly grabbing her friend by the hand, she literally dragged her, like an impatient child with their parent, through the palatial mansion and out onto the immaculate patio. Their shoes click-clacked on the Jerusalem limestone floors as they went. Yasmin was the kind of person many could only tolerate in short bursts; despite holding down a respectable job as head of the Bureau's CCTV control room, outside of work the stunning Iranian-American had a tendency for exaggerated behavior. Such eccentric, over-ebullient antics were her de facto reaction to many positive things. Fortunately, Talar was the kind of person who found her rejuvenating rather than tiring. Yasmin was like a shot of triple-strength espresso that perked her up and kept her alert.

Talar seated herself in one of the white, dainty looking wrought-iron chairs, surveying the immaculate scene before her, as her friend scooted off to fetch some liquid refreshment. Imported from Italy, these chairs. Original 1940s Salterini. Like Talar, Yasmin was a 1st-gerenation Elysian, and one who had chosen a very different route in life than her parents. The Harandis were an oil dynasty based in Texas, and the Sampsons California real estate tycoons since the 1990's, both having relocated to the New World when their respective businesses had dried up. Whilst Earth's fossil fuels were all but exhausted, however, the housing market had since picked up again, with an ever-increasing need for heavily guarded gated communities; enclaves of extreme wealth that couldn't quite make it to Elysium, but wanted to keep the poor and disenfranchised out nonetheless. Whilst poverty and crime were rife, Earth wasn't the utterly destitute hell hole that some Elysians would have their children believe. Talar knew this because her father was back in the real estate game, her two elder brothers now having joined him, and continuing to make a fortune.

Ever unconventional, Yasmin returned with two champagne flutes and two cans of Scrumpy Jack cider. She had never understood the fuss about champagne, she had said, preferring gut-rot cheap beverages more appropriate for the poorer inhabitants of Earth than a Persian princess. She placed the items on the glass-topped, wrought-iron table, and sat down.

"They wouldn't let us monitor the interview room," she explained incredulously. "Can you believe that? You could have killed poor old Dieter, or at least made away with some of his prize pens."

"And you just know when they caught me they wouldn't have arrested me for murder or theft," Talar said with a chuckle.

"Right. They'd do it for you not filling out the correct forms beforehand."

The two shared a laugh. Yasmin picked up her can of cider, opened it and took a large swig, before pouring more of the contents into the champagne flute. Talar went for the flute first.

Despite Lang's stipulation that the interview's contents remain strictly confidential, Talar knew that she could trust Yasmin, and it would have been a violation of human rights for the Elysium authorities to spy on their citizens; thus, it was safe to talk. Talar sipped her cider.

"First of all," Yasmin said, "tell me what actually happened."

"Well, they said it was going to be unconventional... and it certainly was."

She went on to explain the files, up to the point of reaching Agent Kruger's review.

"My God," Yasmin remarked, "I can only imagine what that damn thing said!"

Being the first party responsible for the headquarters' security, the CCTV operators were one of the few privy to all agents' basic files. But not, as conditions would have it, their actual rap sheets or reports. Everything they and their fellow employees learned about the Bureau's assets were through clandestine whisperings outside all but one of the top tier's purview. That one was Heidi Bryant, 33-year-old auburn-haired supermodel and third in line to Delacourt's throne, whose penchant for gossip with her immediate inferiors would have gotten her hung drawn and quartered by now had those inferiors been equally as careless...and not terrified of her. Bryant was the kind of person who believed she could act with impunity, and have everyone else clear up her mess, no matter how monumental. She also happened to be Delacourt's second cousin. Nevertheless, not all of the gossip filtered down to the lowest ranks of the organization.

"Oh, it's juicy all right," said Talar, with a wicked grin.

"With Kruger I'd expect no less. That guy's a fucking menace and then some – he's got a list of crimes as long as your arm, but he gets away with it because he's a Gen 1-" Gen 1s, as they were called, were the first generation of agents recruited by the bureau; the ones to have acquired legendary status and even sometimes reverence, "-and the IceMare's top pet. Whenever she wants someone to do the real dirty work – which is apparently quite often – she activates that guy. From what I've read and heard about him, he absolutely relishes it."

Talar nodded. "He's been playing ball for the last 40 years, in so far as extra curricular crimes go."

"Oh has he, now? Maybe he's getting soft in his old age?"

"Or maybe they're medicating him?"

"That's more likely."

"But before that...yeah. Very naughty boy. Every bit the menace you describe him as."

"Is it true he's a rapist?"

"Rapist, murderer, assassin, torturer, kidnapper, thief, weapons trafficker...err...and he hates Russians. At least he's not a paedophile, though."

"Be grateful for small mercies," Yasmin said, snorting sarcastically.

"The report didn't go into his life," Talar continued, "but focused on his psychological make-up; and let me tell you, that's some messed up shit if ever I saw it. He was originally diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder and anti-social behaviour disorder, back in 2006 when he was recruited... which is bad enough, but those diagnoses were overturned in 2038 in favor of something called 'annihilistic personality disorder', which is in the same category as the others but much worse, and much rarer. From what I understand, narcissistic personality disorder and anti-social personality disorder are characterized by a lack of conscience and empathy; highly manipulative people with huge egos, who are completely self serving. But people with this annihilstic personality disorder thing, unlike the others in the category, do have a conscience, they do have empathy; it's just that they can consciously switch them off...which in effect makes them far worse, because they actively choose to annihilate others, to annihilate their own humanity, as it were."

Yasmin shook her head, gave a small tut.

"The narcisstics, the anti-social PDs, sure they're awful, but that's not their fault. They're just wired that way. The annihilists are in a position to choose the yellow brick road or the devil's highway, and they choose the devil's highway. Why, I don't know, but it's that active shunning of their humanity what makes them the most ruthless, evil people imaginable."

"And you're gonna be meeting this guy, in the flesh? I used to think you were brave, Tal. Now I just think you're damn crazy! But even though you're my bubba you're a grown woman and I can't tell you what to do. Unfortunately. I can, however, emotionally blackmail you with the threat of crying myself to sleep every night, distraught with worry."

Talar cracked a smile. "Apparently he barely visits the place. Once every couple months, if that."

"Yeah, but you can be damn sure that'll change when he hears a woman is his superior. He only tolerates the IceMare 'cos she pays him a mint."

"How do you know she pays him a mint?"

"He's got a house here."

"What?! How do you know that?"

"Heidi Bryant used to date the guy who handled his mortgage here."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Kruger's house is the one by Lake Noah. The one joined by a bridge to that giant cube oddity."

Talar knew precisely the one her friend meant; a slick, sparkling white, two storey flat-roofed creation, all clean lines and minimalist aesthetic, with a suspended catwalk that lead to a crystalline cube pavilion sometimes lit up at night like a giant sugar lump. She and Yasmin had flown over it in Yasmin's Lamborghini aircar innumerable times on their way to the restaurant district. Several times a year there would be glowing installations in the tiered garden, strip lighting surrounding the generous infinity pool, and people could be seen milling about.

"That one? The guy must be rolling in it."

"I know. It's obscene. What's even more obscene is that he bought that place the moment Elysium was up and running. He already had enough to take out a mortgage here _then_."

"That's just...more shades of wrong than I can count right now." She paused, struck again by a thought that had often preoccupied her since Corporate Studies class, then continued, "Then again...when you think about it, is it any worse than Delacourt or Carlyle owning properties here? Are they any more entitled to it because they're from old money and went through Ivy League education?"

"True, true," her raven-haired friend said, nodding.

As Dieter Lang had so aptly put it, Kruger and his ilk were the price Elysians paid for paradise. Elyisum was the omelette made from a trillion broken eggs - an idyll mostly taken for granted by its subsequent generations, that depended on the profits of exploited labor, and the copious shedding of blood, to survive. Unsavory as they were, the real villains weren't the ones who served – be they the hood rats employed in Armadyne factories, or the top-ranking mercenaries - but those who gave the orders. It was a brutal truth that the authorities went out of their way to conceal, and that even the savvier inhabitants chose to ignore or never speak of.

It was only Talar's unusual preoccupation with questioning everything – a facet shared by Yasmin – that had lead her to learn, and care, about such matters. Grateful though the pair were for their good fortunes, it never sat completely easily with them that their very bedrock had been constructed in a factory where workers functioned as mere cogs, dispensable and easily replaceable, subject to hazardous working conditions and paid a pittance for their toil. Neither did the fact that their medbays had, and continued to be, manufactured by a division of ArmaCeuticals - a pharmaceutical company owned by Armadyne, whose medications for the masses were produced with such poor quality materials that some even required a government health warning. Having procured a packet of over-the-counter painkillers via an Earth-based ex-employee of her father's, Yasmin had joked that this was perhaps an attempted measure of population control. "Side effects may include," she had read, "vomiting, diarrhea, nausea, dizziness, constipation, blurry vision, dry mouth, rash, increased heart palpitations, high blood pressure, violent seizures, and sudden death".

In short, Kruger was the symptom, not the cause, and a lofty social standing didn't mean any less blood on your hands or any more entitlement to Elysian citizenship. Money was the only prerequisite.

"Anyway, Yas, as my subordinate he knows he can't touch me."

"Can't touch this!" Yasmin quipped, snapping her fingers animatedly. "Duu do do do, do do, do do, can't touch this! Duu do do do, do do, do do! That's how we livin' on Elysium and you know!"

"-Stop! It's Hammer time!"

"-Stop! It's Hammer time!"

The two broke into hysterics. At over 150 years old, MC Hammer's 'U Can't Touch This' remained to be a timeless classic, having been a staple of Music History class since Elysium's first school opened. Yasmin called it her "bust a funky quote" song, whose lyrics she would often manage to work into informal conversations.

"But," the older woman continued, "what about the Spider Situation? You know they've got massive bastards out there, venom and all."

"I get four house droids."

"Equipped with a sense of humor, though?"

"Sadly not."

In Elysium, there was no limit to the amount of robotic staff a household could employ. Living in an annex to her parents' mansion, Talar, however, had insisted on never needing them. Starkly incongruous with the rest of the space station's inhabitants, she didn't see the need for vast ostentation which served no practical purpose. Not that she was morally against it; rather, it just seemed like a whole lot of pointless to her, money that could be better reinvested in the habitat's social infrastructure. Elyisum was, for the most part, it's own perfect microcosm, with every amenity one could ever want. Inhabited by a mere 2 million people, and at 100 miles / 160 kilometers in diameter, it was spacious enough to boast its own extensive corporate business district, in addition to equally comprehensive educational, science, research, architectural, commercial and leisure districts; one of which housed a vast, artificial Maldives-style indoor resort, with crystalline white sandy beaches, turquoise salt sea and simulated azure sky. It also had a ski resort, a hiking resort, 3 multi-storey interactive cinemas, and so much more.

What it lacked, however, was a museum, a public library, a community center, and various other 'Old World' staples. She reasoned that technological advances had rendered them all but redundant, and that, ironically for a population of merely 2 million, the idea of 'community' had become obsolete. Yet, in the digital and holographic age, there was something charming in the nostalgic quality of actual, tangible artifacts; and in a beautiful world of beautiful strangers, also something comforting in the idea of being on friendly terms with your neighbors.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons Earth appealed to her; or at least, the idea of Earth. Sparse as those places were, they still existed there, although whether they would be anything like she hoped was anyone's guess.

Or perhaps she simply didn't fit in here. Even less so than her bonkers best friend.

"Too bad. Maybe find a wig matching my hairstyle and stick it on one of them, call it Yasmin, and you'll be halfway there."

"Noted!"

"So anyway, what happened after you told Lang you'd accept? Did the IceMare come in? Did your sanitary towel overflow?"

"Oh, if only you knew how close that came to actually happening."

"So she did come in?!"

"She did."

"Holy mother of... No, I'm not even going to complete that sentence. I can't think of any word that would do justice to what I'm feeling right now."

"And do you know why she came in?"

"Why?"

"To congratulate me personally on being the first woman in the job."

"Really? That's...odd."

"It is. And before she left, she said really calmly, "best of luck, especially with our less _amenable_ assets" and gave me this sort of... sly look. I'm not even sure what she meant by it, but it was almost like she took some kind of macabre glee out of knowing I'm going to be down there, coming into contact with-"

"Mr. Annihilistic Personality Disorder and his prison gang buddies."

"Exactly. But then-"

"What? There's more? Don't me tell she cartwheeled out of there? Rumor has it she used to be a gymnast, you know. Take a look at those calves!"

"I've never cared to look at her calves, Yas. I try not to look at her at all, if I can help it. But I'll take your word for it."

"Bitch has astounding calves. I'll give her that. And a great derrier."

"Wait; is there something you're not telling me, by any chance?"

Yasmin cracked a wholly unladylike laugh. "In your fucking dreams, Tal."

Talar chuckled, slapping her friend jovially on the upper arm.

"As I was saying, Yas, after she said that odd line and gave me that weird, kinda sly look, she winked at me."

Yasmin straight spat out her mouthful of cider.

"I am not joking, Yas. She _winked_ at me."

Yasmin lay face down on the glass-topped table, laughing like a crazy woman and slapping her palm against the surface. Talar stopped talking, waiting for the poor woman to recover. When she did, Talar continued: "My thoughts exactly. Except with the freak-out factor."

"Oh, I'm freaked out all right. I'm not capable of expressing just how freaked out I actually am, Tal. Why the fuck would she wink at you?"

"Beats me. Maybe it was an in-joke between her and Lang."

"Or maybe she fancies you."

"Fuck off."

"There is that rumor too... those Quebecois are renowned for being quite fruity."

"Spare me, thanks."

"Hah, fair enough. But I doubt she and Lang have any in-jokes. If the IceMare has any sense of humor it's a) a sick and twisted one, and b) one she wouldn't share with a rank and file like old Dieter. I think the wink was ironic - as in, she's elated at what a _joyous_ time you'll be having down there with those _charming_ specimens. Fucked up, though. I knew she was a bitch, but I wouldn't expect her to goad you like that."

"Me neither."

"Anyway..."

"Yeah..."

"Onto brighter things!" Yasmin slapped her knees resolutely. "What's gonna be happening with the housing situation?"

"Lang sent me away with an intranet code to browse the Bureau's properties in and around that area. Apparently they've got about 20, all fully furnished, although I'm allowed to change the décor if I pay for it myself. I get a standard company aircar; medbay; obviously the droids... I have to pay the rent and rates for the house, though, but that's fair."

"Sounds good! When do you start?"

"That's the thing... They've got the admin droids working there right now, but they want a human as soon as possible. If I said I could go tomorrow, they'd agree. But I've got up to a week from now."

"Only up to a week? Fuck... Right, better get my culo in gear then!"

"What for?"

"Bubba, I'm not letting you go without a proper send off!"

* * *

**AN 2**

Changes made to the canon:

_1. Elysium's distance from Earth_

I've read numerous conflicting estimates of this. The first, from the movie, quotes the illegal shuttles as being 15,000km (9320m) at halfway toward Elysium. I thought that seemed way off, as the view from Elysium to Earth looks much closer. Research only confused me further; from estimates quoting 75m/120km away, to others stating to be in the same orbit as the International Space Station (220m/354km) from Earth), and still others that say it's at point L5 (which, between 221,000-252,000m/355,655-405,554km, is equidistant between Earth and the Moon, and is in the Moon's orbit) as this was the proposed location for the original Stanford torus. I'm going for it being around 621m/1000km away, which is hopefully not close enough to influence tides, weather and other ecological forces (but you're all welcome to offer any corrections).

_2. The speed of interstellar crafts_

According to official literature, these differ depending on the craft. Applied to my estimate, the Raven, whose transit time between Earth and the torus is 20 minutes, would have to be travelling at 31m/50km per minute, or 1860mph/3000kph, at its fastest cruising speed (its escape velocity and re-entry speeds, however, would have to be exponentially higher). This equates to hypersonic speed, and Mach 6.67. Carlyle's Fulgar Shuttle, whose transit time is an hour, would therefore be 621mph/1000kph; transonic speed, and approximately Mach 0.85, at its fastest cruising speed. Like any interstellar craft, its escape velocity and re-entry speeds would also have to increase exponentially; and for the sake of plot we're going to have to assume this is workable. Anyway, the Fulgar shuttle is the model that will double as a general purpose aircar for Talar. Those of you learned in Mach will, however, be able to identify the errors between the given crafts and their high speed capabilities; there are a myriad of aerodynamic rules to conform to, and unfortunately, save redesigning entirely new VTOL and astronautical forms of transport, I'm going to have to wing this from the 'future tech' angle. Besides, I frickin love the Raven and Carlyle's Bugatti Veyron shuttle, and any Elysium fic wouldn't be an Elysium fic without them; so, please suspend a healthy amount of disbelief for this one.

_3. Elysium's size and population_

I've read similarly conflicting estimates as to its size, and population. Some say 29m/40km in diameter, others (including production notes, according to some) say 37m/60km; some say 8k people, others say 10k, whilst others say 100k, 250k and 500k. But, assuming the torus to be roughly 100m/160km away in the canon, at either of those estimates it would look much smaller from Earth. Thus I've gone with what is rumored to be Blomkamp's original idea of the torus being about 100m/160km in diameter, and inhabited by a population larger than the mere 500,000; Blomkamp's original number was 10 million, but I'm going for 2 million.

Having a larger torus also goes some way to solving the scientific fallacy of how a roofless space station can maintain its gravity, and also keep itself protected from radiation and space debris. I'm no phsyics or space science wizz, but from what I understand, centripetal force (or is it centrifugal? Told you I'm no science wizz. At the risk of sounding like an idiot, I'm going to stick with centripetal unless someone corrects me) and super high walls are simply not enough to maintain the status quo on a structure as small as the canonical torus; and there is no mention of it utilizing a force field, similar to the shield that Kruger uses, either. The bigger the object, the stronger centripetal force applies. So, by this merit, a torus 100m / 160 km in diameter might just be enough to crack this particular problem, and negating the need for writing in a force field.

Hey, what is fanfiction for if not subverting canons? ;)

I've had to wing it alongside Blomkamp & co. with the "people residing for more than six months in space and remaining perfectly healthy" premise, though. I'm guessing that's part of the medbay's functions. There is also an issue known as Coriolis Effect, which further complicates matters, but the particularities of it are beyond the scope of my understanding, therefore it will have to be one of the areas which requires a certain amount of poetic license.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN 1 **

**1.** So how are you feeling Delacourt with a different hairdo? Well, she's got one, so nyeerrr.

**2.** For the sake of brevity, from now on I'm going to switch to using imperial measurements in prose; however, in dialogue, as it seems Elysium uses the metric system, I will use this and give the corresponding imperial measurement in parenthesis. I wrote this entire chapter using both and it just looked messy, so I had to pick one and mostly use that. (It's weird being a displaced North American, because I'm used to both measurements and never quite sure which one to use anyway).

**3.** Amended** Chapter 1** as follows:

_The irony hadn't been lost on her. Renouncing the world of have's to dwell in that of have-not's, after the arduous struggle such have-not's routinely undertook to reach the have's (although the vast majority of them were intercepted en route), was close to heresy. _

I was intending to cover this later, but changed my mind because it was bugging me. One of my gripes with the movie was the lack of defenses outside the space station; and by defenses I really mean immigration control, because they may indeed have robust defenses against actual attackers but be completely unauthorized to use them against anything less than an overt attack. Not entirely plausible, but not entirely impossible either. Perhaps they simply don't expect to come under attack and have grown complacent? Judging from what the CCB aide says about them no longer being authorized to use their Earth-bound assets, however, I would expect illegal entry is a prominent concern. If so, is Kruger really their only so-called immigration officer? If not for him, why would they wait until the illegal shuttles land before taking action? After mulling over it a while, my headcannon concluded that Elyisum's defenses against illegal entry were primarily 'civil' (i.e., non lethal) ones, such as interception vessels hovering around the edge of Elysium's airspace... but that these weren't allowed to use lethal force, thereby necessitating the use of less than humanitarian tactics aka "blow the poor buggers to smithereens" if the border hoppers refused to turn back.

**4.** Also, edit of my 2nd AN in the last chapter, **re: the speed of interstellar crafts**. It has been amended as follows:

_According to official literature, these differ depending on the craft. Applied to my estimate, the Raven, whose transit time between Earth and the torus is 20 minutes, would have to be travelling at 31m/50km per minute, or 1860mph/3000kph, at its fastest cruising speed (its escape velocity and re-entry speeds, however, would have to be exponentially higher). This equates to hypersonic speed, and Mach 6.67. _

_Carlyle's Fulgar Shuttle, whose transit time is an hour, would therefore be 621mph/1000kph; transonic speed, and approximately Mach 0.85, at its fastest cruising speed. Like any interstellar craft, its escape velocity and re-entry speeds would also have to increase exponentially; and for the sake of plot we're going to have to assume this is workable. _

_Anyway, the Fulgar shuttle is the model that will double as a general purpose aircar for Talar. _

_Those of you learned in Mach will, however, be able to identify the errors between the given crafts and their high speed capabilities; there are a myriad of aerodynamic rules to conform to, and unfortunately, save redesigning entirely new VTOL and astronautical forms of transport, I'm going to have to wing this from the 'future tech' angle. Besides, I frickin love the Raven and Carlyle's Bugatti Veyron shuttle, and any Elysium fic wouldn't be an Elysium fic without them; so, please suspend a healthy amount of disbelief for this one._

**5.** "They're gonna eat me alive if I stumble". From _Help I'm Alive_, by Metric.

The usual thanks to my lovelies - Nik216, InvisibleRanger, and the Germiston Chicks – and to my wonderful readers.

I own nothing. I wish I owned Neill Blomkamp, Sharlto Copley, James Turrel** and Leo Villareal***.

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

It had been a close shave, she thought, gazing up at the off-white ceiling of her new bedroom. A _very_ close shave. But she had made it.

Having missed her alarm for 0630, Talar had awoken at 0730 with barely half an hour to complete her entire morning routine; a task which normally took a good 75 minutes at least. Not that she was vain, or simply overly fond of the heavily made-up look; the CCB dress code required even its most mundane employees to promote a certain standard of personal grooming... which was, essentially, to be the businessperson equivalent of trussed up A-List celebrity at an awards gala. It was one of the few times Talar wished she were a man.

Hair the color of dark chocolate, which was normally woven into an elaborate up-do, now hung in a simple side plait down to her collarbone, exposing a heart-shaped face that still carried enough natural fat to give off a youthful air. Deep brown eyes, usually accentuated with kohl, smokey dark shades, and voluminizing and lengthening mascara on both the upper and lower lashes, were now framed only by a simple kohl line and a one-time application of mascara on the upper lashes. Forget contouring – it wasn't the be all and end all. She had managed to save enough time by applying the barest of foundation, concealer and compact, and coloring in her eyebrows quickly, to allow for making the best of her modest but cherubic lips. Forget blush – that would have to be done en route. Forget jumping in the medbay for a personalized emboss on her neck, temple or forehead.

She had squeezed into the charcoal-grey Armani empire dress and anthracite Louboutin stilettos, sparing the briefest of moments to take stock of how the combination managed to flatter even her disproportionate figure. She had always been on the more 'padded out' side, as even her own mother liked to put it, yet her A-cup breasts had refused to conform; and although sorely temped, she had held back on having them surgically enhanced. Besides, none of the whopping four – _four, _hah_ -_ men she had dated had ever complained.

By 0800 she was bidding her family and friends a goodbye that could barely afford sentiment – the tears and hugs had been thoroughly wrung out last night – grabbing the last suitcase, and jumping in her Prius aircar, pre-programmed with her workplace's co-ordinates.

Half an hour. She deserved an Olympic medal.

She had completed the rest of her routine – perfume, stockings, unassuming jewelry, and minimal blush – during the 15 minute journey to the CCB headquarters, where she had been met by Dieter Lang, the infamous Heidi Bryant, and Defense Secretary Delacourt. It was only then that she remembered the one thing Yasmin had drilled into her not to forget, under any circumstances – the ever-trusty sanitary towel - was missing. She had left it on the bathroom counter, still unopened. Stupid fucking grey-matter- destroying alcohol, and rolling into bed at 2am. One of the few times she actually enjoyed a social gathering, and it ended up knocking out her braincells.

Forget the medal, then.

There they had been, awaiting her in the plush lobby, espressos in hand, looking bizarrely informal in comparison to their usual get-up. Talar would have wondered if the famous Earth custom of casual Fridays had suddenly been adopted at the Bureau, had it not been Tuesday. Dieter was wearing jeans – jeans! - and a casual shirt and tie; Heidi's waist-length auburn tresses were scraped back into a simple ponytail rather than a work of art, and was dressed in a simple blush tunic dress and matching pumps; and for the first time ever, Delacourt wasn't kitted out in a hard-line power suit, but something more befitting of a garden party number. Talar had felt a creeping suspicion that she was going to become the victim of a prank.

*_She's just going to see me off, right?_* Talar had pleaded with whichever mind-reading deity happened to be peaking in on her thoughts.

"If she shows up and tries to pinch your ass," Yasmin had advised her last night, through drunken slurs, "you take it. You take it like a good bitch, y'hear? You gotta...you gotta do thezzzze thingssssh, y'know? Jus' say "Yes Ma'am" and don't make a fusshhhh."

But Talar had never expected the woman to actually turn up. After all, hadn't she effectively bid her farewell at the end of the interview?

"Secretary Delacourt, Ma'am," Talar had stumbled, "what a pleasant surprise!" She had caught the almost imperceptible snicker on Heidi Bryant's model-esque features, which sent a jolt of irritation through her. Talar's fake, composed front was as transparent as an Elysian window.

"The more I thought about it," replied the copper-blonde, in a starkly amicable register, "the more I felt you deserved a little more than our average employee. That's why Mr. Lang, Ms. Bryant and myself are accompanying you, to personally show you around your new workplace and ensure you're properly settled."

That was possibly the last thing she had wanted to hear. A few minutes with the Big Boss was traumatic enough; several hours would give her PTSD. To her overwhelming relief, though, no cryptic looks or winks had ensued, let alone pinching of asses; although, piqued by curiosity, the temptation to glance her superior's now infamous calves had sunk its pointy little teeth into her a few times. Under the implacable gaze of Heidi Bryant, however, doing so would have earned her a reputation far worse than her current 'social misfit' status.

Another small mercy was the transport, with Talar's two suitcases being her only company on the one hour flight to her new home. Having never travelled outside of the space station before, and having received only the most basic of briefing from Lang, she hadn't known what to expect of interstellar travel, and her excitement upon the shuttle doors finally closing would have been so evident upon her face that Bryant would no doubt have made something less than complimentary out of it amongst her colleagues.

*_That Talar Sampson; she's an _objective sexual_, don't you know?*_

The flight had been surprisingly unremarkable, the only discomfort occurring during what Lang had called atmospheric re-entry, when the shuttle had violently shook and rattled for several minutes. "It feels worse than it is," he had assured her, and she'd had no reason to distrust him. Thousands of trips were made to Earth each year, and to her knowledge, not one of them had ended in disaster. The Fulgar shuttles, which doubled as aircars, were infinitely more robust than they appeared, thanks to paper-thin but extremely mighty state of the art heat resistant materials and insulating tiles.

The shuttles had landed intact, and at 0930, Talar stepped out into the Nevada high desert – the land that had become her new home.

None of the 20 isolated properties had particularly appealed to her. What they boasted in air-tight security which was absolutely crucial given their remote locations, they lacked in modesty, all far exceeding the space required for a sole occupant. Situated smack bang in what could only be described as the True Middle of Absolutely Fucking Nowhere, the closest match – and that was putting it loosely - to her five room annex was a ludicrously spacious, one-storey house in what was termed 'Desert Modernism' style - a clean, uncomplicated aesthetic, reminiscent of the Alexander and Kaufman houses of mid 20th Century Palm Springs California, that she had learned about in Architectural Studies. 2000 square feet of cream-white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, wide overhangs, and semi open-plan interiors with transparent dividers as walls, laid onto a cream, mottled, Italian marble floor. Two bedrooms; one master bathroom; two toilets; dining room; living room; and expansive kitchen. An equally generous garden, fringed with an assortment of cacti and palm trees, and boasting a patio, swimming pool and small gazebo, completed the picture, amping up the total area to 4000 sq feet. The furnishings and décor were attractive if not generic, pertaining more to a hotel penthouse than a home, but it would do. No doubt about it, it was an Elysian house, and about as humble as those things got; although in Elysian terms it was positively shack-like.

It mildly perturbed her, though, that out of all the houses on Elysium and in the CCB's Earth database – the vast majority being Tuscan, Prairie, châteauesque, Spanish colonial, Renaissance revival, or Streamline Moderne - this particular one bore the closest resemblance to that of Mr. No.1 on the Dirtiest Agents List. She had to hand it to him, though, he had good taste when it came to architecture. The frippery and finery of all but the so-called Streamline Modernes looked too busy, and the Streamline Modernes themselves – a facet of the Art Deco movement – looked anything but streamline; ugly clunky things with curved edges and a mixture of claustrophobic, glass block and metal casement windows, that wouldn't have looked out of place on a prison.

When the two Fulgar shuttles had touched down, the reason for her superiors' comparatively casual dress code became abundantly clear. It was for the exact same reason Lang had handed her military-style goggles before leaving the foyer: Nevada's Clark County desert was windy, hot even at this early in the morning, and it was dusty as hell, the wisps of air stirring up particles of arid earth in manic swirls and then blasting them everywhere. No wonder her aircar was going to be lodged in an underground garage; stepping out into this maelstrom for a mere thirty seconds would leave anyone thoroughly coated in dirt. She hoped her workplace, 240 miles away, would escape the travelling dust channels, otherwise she would have to travel between the parking lot and main entry point in nothing less than a hazmat suit.

The plus point of the inhospitable climate, however, was a lack of rattlesnakes; or so she had been assured. They always favored the shade. Scorpions and spiders, however, were less discerning. Of course, the spiders would have to be, wouldn't they?

Whilst Lang and Bryant removed her luggage from the shuttle, she had turned a slow circle, taking in the scene as the dust flared around her. Flat ground, peppered with sand-coloured shrubs, stretched seemingly forever, interspersed with mountains in the north. No sight of any roads; the nearest, Route 95, being several miles to the west. Sweeping skies with cirrus clouds to the east, and high opposite, the torus. Depending on the time of year, and weather, apparently it was visible for around 6 hours per day, similar to Earth's oldest satellite – the moon.

_*Look at that,*_ she had marvelled to herself, _*just look at that.* _

Artificiality had never felt so beautiful, so wondrous, before.

But no wonder she needed four droids, electronically-coded locks for every opening, and 360 degree CCTV – if someone decided to besiege her out here, the nearest neighbors, the remote settlement of Searchlight and its even tinier and more remote cousins Cal-Nev-Ari and Palm Gardens, were both tens of miles away. Nevertheless, the only way anyone could possibly thwart those security measures would be through highly sophisticated code decrypting software, mortar fire, or some other explosive device; and none of those were likely to happen... that was, unless she managed to severely piss off the Lithuanian whizz kid, or Mr. Dirtiest on the List, to the point where her station offered no protection from them. But that wasn't likely to happen, was it?

So, at 0940 hours, Talar lay atop her plush king-size bed, having been allowed fifteen minutes rest whilst her superiors sat at the walnut veneer kitchen table, drinking coffee which Lang had brought as a token house warming gift. It seemed like the most absurd turn of events; a week ago she was a lowly admin girl with no prospects of career advancement, and now here she was working on Earth, with the head of the CCB and the Chief Gossiper in General relaxing at her kitchen table, in a ludicrously surreal state of domesticity. It was only ever meant to be Lang, and doing nothing so familiar, at that.

_*She fancies me. Shit. She fancies me.* _

_*No, she doesn't. Come on.*_

_*Then why is she here? Do you really believe all that "show you around because you're the first woman on the job" nonsense?*_

_*Yes I do..or at least, I want to.*_

_*But is that good enough?*_

_*Quit it.* _

She sat up, physically shaking her head to try and dislodge the errant thoughts. Warm morning sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors, which lead onto the patio, gave the room a gorgeously bright, airy ambience, almost akin to that of the torus. It caressed her face and bare arms in a golden, glowing whisper, welcoming her, telling her she'd feel right at home here. Having to work with certain agents would indeed challenge her, take her right out of her comfort zone, but here she would feel like a proper Elysian again... although whether she was entirely comfortable with that reminder, she wasn't sure. Still, she'd hardly call it grounds for complaining.

She toyed with the idea of getting changed, and covering her dust-blasted plait with a hat, but decided against it. Today was for settling in, not working, and any agents who happened to be in the club would be circumspect enough to mind their own business, especially with Delacourt present. After touring her new workplace, she would be allowed to spend the day freely, taking the shuttle – which was to double as her aircar – to survey the local area if she wanted, or even the entire state. Travel to anywhere within Nevada was covered by the Bureau. The idea of Las Vegas quite took her fancy; centuries since its construction, it remained the gambling capital of the world, and a major attraction even for Elysians, which was saying something. It would be interesting to know what all the fuss was about.

And there was also the morbidly curious child in her that wanted to visit Boulder City – the place where Andrew Chisholm had met his untimely death – but that would feel horribly like tempting fate. Aircars and Fulgar shuttles were the preferred methods of transport by wealthy inhabitants of Earth, and not uncommon in more productive areas, so no-one would necessarily twig that she was from the big bicycle wheel in the sky; but all the same, she didn't want to chance it.

She shuffled off the bed, stood up and brushed herself down for the third time, knowing the house droids would clean it when she left, then made her way back to civilization as she knew it. Three heads turned to face her as she entered the kitchen, and for a moment, she somehow felt even more self conscious than in the lobby that morning. What if Delacourt really did have sexual designs on her? Not that the woman, with her slender physique and shoulder-length copper-blonde bob, wasn't attractive; but she was...a megabitch, and a master bureaucrat... and related to Heidi Bryant.

"Thank you so much for waiting," she said with a gracious nod, picking up the mug of coffee Lang had made for her. The trio nodded back.

Having forgotten to request cream and sugar, she went to the fridge to locate the former herself. Thanks to the Bureau's outsourced shopping agency, whose entry into the property was controlled from HQ, the enormous fridge and freezer were already stocked with the essentials, and a plethora of the superfluous.

"They're on call 24-7," Lang had said yesterday at their pre-journey meeting.

_*Just in case I need to order truffles, caviar and Krug champagne at 3am,*_ Talar had thought. She certainly wouldn't be ordering Krug champagne. Not now.

Another of the CCB's own privately contracted agencies, staffed by Armadyne droids, handled all the other vitals, too - plumbing, electricals, waste management, emergency services – whilst the household droids dealt with menial chores. An automated skip shuttle stopped by every afternoon to collect inorganic waste, whilst a septic tank took care of organic waste. Water was sourced via a private pipeline from Lake Mohave, then treated by the property's own autonomous system.

She poured an unhealthy amount of creamy calories into the warm drink, then three teaspoons of sugary awfulness, and downed the thing in less than thirty seconds, eager to get the pleasantries over and done with. Lang being there wouldn't have bothered her, but there was something distinctly perturbing about the other two being sat at her table.

"Ready?" Delacourt asked, still in that ridiculously informal tone.

Talar nodded.

* * *

23 minutes and 240miles later, the two shuttles landed in the concrete parking lot of the 0.3 square mile industrial park of Nye County's Area 20. The two senior women disembarked first, followed by Talar, who had this time been accompanied by Lang. Theirs were the only vehicles in the vicinity, save a drab-looking cargo shuttle. At 10:25, the temperature was picking up, and the sun becoming garishly bright; forcing Talar to don her sunglasses in order to glance upwards at the 66ft high mesh fences surrounding the complex. A locked entry gate stood a couple hundred feet to her left, set into the fence, and a network of rectangular, beige, 15,000 square foot warehouses sprawled before her like a giant computer chip. Unused warehouses, Chisholm had told her, all completely hollow. Obviously a damn good ruse, because no intruders had ever set foot upon the property. If that were to happen, however, they would have their work cut out trying to access the club, as Talar found out for herself mere minutes later.

"Scenic, isn't it?" joked Delacourt drolly as the quartet traversed the 150foot distance to the closest warehouse. Bryant and Lang giggled, Talar only managing to join on the tail end of the others, due to the utter shock of hearing the mighty Defense Secretary actually crack a joke. June 18, 2144 was going to go down in her calender as Officially the Weirdest Day Ever Recorded.

*_Why, madam Secretary Delacourt; your cold, impersonal demeanor is markedly less pronounced today. Are you in heat, my dear?_*

*_Stop it. Stop it now. She does not fancy you. Just like Mr. Annihilistic Personality Disorder and his Chipper Chums will not dare touch you. Nothing to worry about._*

The industrial sized high speed door was fitted not only with a coded lock, but what appeared to be a retina scanner. Talar watched as Delacourt's slim fingers punched in a 6 digit number, to which the system beeped, then as a gossamer white beam scanned a lightning fast path from the woman's head to toe.

"DNA coded," she explained, matter-of-factly.

The door shot open horizontally, admitting her entry, then shot closed behind her. Bryant followed suit.

"The number is 625479," said Lang.

"625479..." Talar repeated. "Got it."

She repeated the number over and over until punching it in - the keypad beeped - then waited the two seconds for the scanner to read her. Zhoop! Door open, admitting her entry to a cool, vacant room with a pearlized grey concrete floor, polished to a radiant shine. In fact, she was yet to see a floor so shiny. Evidently one of the designers had wanted to leave the Elysian stamp on the place; that, and the eight droids, two at each corner, Cousar Crowe rifles and ChemRail guns propped by their sides. Zhoop! Door closed. Talar turned to see the same coded lock and DNA scanner on the inside.

"Like the floor?" Delacourt asked, a cryptic expression sneaking back into her refined features.

Talar turned to face her, curiosity piquing. "It's certainly Elysian," she replied.

The petite woman nodded. "Very. This isn't just reinforced concrete you're standing on; every entry point and level in the building contains a layer of sealed graphene – the hardest substance known to man, and one of the most difficult and costly to mass produce. If anyone tried to force their way in, there would be next to no chance of getting past this material."

"Like Fort Knox, eh?" Talar mused aloud. the Armadyne Depository, ex United States Bullion Depository before Caryle's corporation bought it up in 2088 for 'unknown purposes', was still referred to as Fort Knox, and continued to reign supreme as the most impenetrable facility on Earth.

Delacourt fixed her with a wry smirk; "There's more."

"How many levels?"

"Four in total, counting this and the club itself."

The Defense Secretary led them to an industrially heavy but normal sized door in the middle of the opposite wall, where they repeated the code and DNA scan. This door opened sideways, leading to a vestibule barely 8 feet wide, which veered 15 feet to the right. At the end of the vestibule was a glass and chrome elevator, just about big enough for the four of them. There were no call buttons; only the now familiar security device, which now featured a tiny grill above the keypad.

Delacourt repeated the procedure, but, as the elevator doors parted, spoke into the grill "suspend all locks." This time, the doors remained open until the entire party had boarded. An identical device, grafted into the chrome wall, took the woman's order to "reinstate all locks", before closing the doors. The vessel began gliding swiftly downwards, leaving the vestibule far behind it in the blink of an eye.

"We don't generally advocate this outside of an emergency," she explained, "but if, for some reason you need to get through the process a hurry, it is permissible to override the protocol. You do this by saying "suspend all locks", which does exactly what it says. When you do that, your wrist device-" she held up her hand to exhibit the thin, stylish bangle - platinum, diamond encrusted - which looked deceptively like a normal piece of jewelry except for one tiny LED rectangle, "-will beep in time with your pulse, and continue to do so until you "reinstate" all the locks. If you do not do this within ten minutes, the locks will reinstate themselves."

"That particular command is DNA and voice coded to a select few," Lang added, "namely, the four of us, Ms. Asan-" Priyanka Asan, Delacourt's PA, "and President Patel."

"I have a question, Ma'am, Sir."

"Go ahead," Delacourt said, her cordiality never failing to leave Talar rattled.

"What if, for example, I'm accosted outside by someone - a gang... a group of terrorists – and they use me to gain entry? I assume that's what the droids are for, but can they be suspended too?"

"Good question," the older woman replied reverently, "because I was going to come to that shortly. This place is a fortress by any other name. Any system that can be bypassed, can also be countered by another system. Even if someone gained unauthorized access, they would never escape alive. If entry were to be gained in the way you suggest, then yes, the droids could also be suspended via voice command. Your voice only. However, there are hidden cameras, linked to HQ, around the entire perimeter of the building, and the unit on the far side of the complex holds a battalion of armored droids who have access to the club in the same way as we do here. Even if the cameras were disabled, the walls, the droids, the security devices and even your bracelet have sensors attuned to a highly specific frequency; all you need do is say the code word - "you don't need to do this" - and the droids in the far warehouse will instantly be deployed to the club. By the time you reach the door, they'll be ready to strike; and in the event that you are injured – which is highly unlikely, as they are programmed to avoid harming you at all costs – you will immediately be taken to a medbay. So, does that answer your question?"

Talar nodded. "Yes Ma'am."

"And for the record, the unit and elevators on the far side cannot be accessed by anyone other than the droids deployed to it. They simply do not recognize organic DNA. And the droids there cannot be disabled or reprogrammed. To that effect, there is absolutely zero chance of an ambush coming from there. It is a completely water-tight system."

Talar didn't dare ask her if it was one the Bureau had actually tested. Nevertheless, the complete lack of trouble in the place's entire history spoke for itself. The only thing she had to worry about here was...

*_Shit, Tal,_* she imagined Yasmin saying, *_for someone who enjoys stepping outside her comfort zone, you're acting like a fucking _girl. _If you're feeling like this now when you've not even met the guy, you're gonna need a whole goddamn toilet strapped to you when he walks in._*

*_Him, _and_ his little mercenary army. They're gonna eat me alive if I stumble._*

*_Well if all else fails, trust the droids. That's what they're there for._*

She forced herself not to sigh. She was here now, and turning back wasn't even an option.

The elevator stopped.

"Open," Delacourt commanded the keypad, then as the doors parted, "Suspend all locks". She turned to Talar and continued, with that horribly unsettling smile, "In all other instances, just say 'open'."

Talar wasn't quite sure what to make of the woman's gesture, except that she was actually coming to prefer the IceMaiden to this incongruously friendly imposter.

After the group exited into a new vestibule, smaller than the one above, the elevator shot back up.

"How far down are we?" Talar asked as they stepped out.

"50 meters (164.5ft)," answered Lang. "The next one is twice that."

Talar surveyed the compact surroundings. It was as if they were encased in pure obsidian - glassy, pitch black walls and floor, with a narrow strip of slowly color-changing light – white, electric blue, turquoise, lime green, neon yellow, and back to white - running along each corner, bright enough to provide adequate illumination without being garishly harsh. Effortlessly minimal, but strikingly effective.

Delacourt caught her admiring it, remarking with that same mysterious half-smile, "James Turrel** designed the vestibules."

Talar vaguely recalled the name - one from Art Studies - although the exact details evaded her. Something to do with lights and illuminations.

"He did a good job," she replied, hoping her relative ignorance wasn't too obvious. If it was, the paler-haired woman spared her the humiliation.

A split second later, another elevator rose up to meet them.

The quartet boarded, and the next descent began.

"You'll like the club even more," offered Lang, "Leo Villareal*** did the lighting for that."

The descent continued.

* * *

**AN 2**

Well folks, this expository chapter is turning out to be much longer than I planned. Hopefully it's getting you salivating for Kru. Stick with it, though, and you shall be rewarded!

Another little tidbit: just as Blomkamp referenced real organisations and South African customs in the film, so have I referenced real places. Area 20, which is the zone encompassing the industrial complex housing the agency's top secret club, owes its name to the real life Nye County's Area 20, aka Pahute Mesa – one of the controversial nuclear testing regions in the Nevada National Security Site (NNSS; formally Nevada Test Site). I've taken a few liberties with the fictional Area 20's location, but it's based on that actual area. Also, as a Valve fan, I couldn't resist having the club's location in Nye County, due to the name of a certain road out there being Back (yes, without the 'l') Mesa Road. Who knows, maybe we'll have an Agent Freeman and Agent Rattmann at the club later ;), with combustible lemons as weapons.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN**

My continued thanks to all those involved. I own nothing.

* * *

**CHAPTER 4**

"I'm sure it's money well spent," Talar nodded, feigning an impressed stance. Next thing she knew, Lang would probably be telling her that some universally-acclaimed sculptor had personally crafted the basins in the club's toilets, yet she would still have little or no clue who this superstar was. Were they really trying to gage her worldly acumen, or lack thereof? And, added that niggling little voice in the back of her head, would Heidi Bryant have the whole Bureau know about it?

*_Look at it this way,*_ her sensibility countered it, *_getting all self conscious isn't exactly going to help you here. What happens happens. Move on._*

Her sensibility was of course correct - it wasn't as if there was anything she could do to change matters. Talar had always taken pride in that strictly rational, pragmatic aspect of her own character; the part that Yasmin's brutal honesty had helped nurture and realize. It was a substitute for having a thick skin, and had at least been enough to get her through working life at the Bureau without constantly chewing herself to death over her lack of social prowess and career advancement.

Quicker than expected, the elevator stopped, and seconds later they were waiting in a vestibule the polar opposite of the previous one. This one was glowing bright, with large, backlit panelled walls, floor and ceiling, morphing gradually, seamlessly from pure white, to that startling neon yellow, day-glow green, shimmering aqua, piercing electric blue; then on to violet, shocking pink, sunset peach, golden orange, and finally fading out to perfect white again. What would otherwise have been a claustrophobic little box now made for a captivating, almost hallucinatory dream-space; a place to stay and immerse yourself in, rather than a mere waiting platform you'd be lucky to spend one minute in. All they needed was a smooth-jazz track of "The Girl From Ipanema" and it would make the perfect platform to the trippier realms of the cosmos.

Heaven knew how much the Bureau had spent on this little microcosm alone – and continued spending, if the electricity was functioning at this output the entire time; unless of course it was motion sensitive and turned itself on and off with the coming and going of elevators - for what was essentially a minuscule group of people.

Yes, this was how Elysian authorities spent their money, and unashamedly so.

The third elevator arrived.

"Another 100 meters," said Lang, "then we're there."

Initially, Talar would have thought 250 meters a bit paranoid for a secret den; but on second thoughts, it wasn't really all that deep, and, for protecting some of Elysium's most valuable assets, neither was it particularly excessive.

Whether through intuition, freakish coincidence, or psychic ability, Lang continued: "This structure really is a fortress, you know. If you think 250 meters and all the sealed graphene weren't enough, the walls are a 3 meter thick mix of reinforced concrete and steel mesh, and there are also buffer corridors spanning the entire perimeter, to mitigate the damage from any potential blasts. You could can withstand a two-ton bomb down here. And in the event that there was nuclear fallout, the place has its own self powering electricity generator, water treatment plant and air filtering system; not to mention enough rations to last 110 people a year, and 110 nuclear protective suits."

"Just incase, no?" Delacourt chimed in, half smirking, to which Heidi Bryant gave a fawning, ladylike little giggle. In such close quarters, it struck Talar as even more irritating.

"Ma'am," Talar addressed the petite Quebecois, getting the woman's scarily amiable smile in response, "how many times have you visited this place?"

"Several times a year," she replied in a non-committal tone. "Why?"

"I was just wondering how busy it gets. Have you ever visited when it was really busy?"

*_And if, at any time, you happened to run into a group of macho South African ex cons, headed by-_*

"On a few occasions, yes. But it really does vary, seemingly for no reason. Some days you may get 75 people just in the evening, whereas others you can go a full twelve hours with no more than twenty; discounting personal briefings, that is. I've been here when it's crowded, and equally, when it's empty."

"Are there any particular agents who stop by the most?"

She had already discussed Kruger's patronage with Lang upon calling him back into the interview room, but from her right hand side, she felt rather than saw Heidi Bryant shoot her peculiar look.

*_That Talar Sampson; she was absolutely shitting herself over the South African guys, don't you know! Absolutely petrified! She won't last long down there. Best place your bets now before she resigns!_*

"Overall, the ones in intelligence and based in North America. But it really does vary."

"Sometimes a group of the Gen 1s decide to almost...camp out here, for days at a time," added Bryant, in a guileless tone that was probably fooling no-one but that she would undoubtedly get away with for being Delacourt's relative.

If, at that moment, Talar could have murdered anyone with impunity, it would have been Bryant. Even the most innocuous seeming comment didn't get past that auburn-haired menace.

Just as she had expected, the smug little madam didn't even get shushed.

"But on the whole," Bryant continued, "that's rare. And obviously, besides briefings, you don't have to fraternize with them."

*_...so don't concern your poor little self, Cowardly Miss Sampson. There there._*

Talar forced the most plausibly genuine smile she had ever mustered. Bryant countered her with one equally as award-worthy.

Moments later, the elevator doors opened onto a third vestibule; this one, a platform preceding a long-drop stairwell decked out in backlit panelled walls, transmuting slowly and gracefully between aqua blue and white. Lang lead them down a one-storey helical staircase - laminated glass treads, glowing the same vibrant aqua thanks to LED accents at either side, accompanied by an unlit glass balustrade iced with a whisper of stainless steel for a handrail. Talar couldn't help but marvel at it; like the CCB headquarters themselves, the entire place was a visual delight, and she hadn't even reached the club yet.

The stairwell ended in the center of a compact foyer, with identical fittings to the vestibule above. Two rifle-brandishing droids guarded the left hand wall.

"They're responsible for the cloakroom," explained Lang, turning around to point at the wall running behind the stairs.

"To date, there's never been a mix up," added Delacourt, to predictable chuckles from the other two and another forced one from Talar.

One final checkpoint, and the wide, electric door slid open, into the commodious club.

The first thing that struck Talar was how airy the place seemed; as pleasant and fresh as an outdoor pavilion on the torus. Obviously the air down here was filtered, but she would have expected an underground venue to seem at least a little stuffy.

Music played overhead, some bland little ditty that offset the unabashed spendor of its surroundings.

"Please, take a look around," Delacourt said with a perfunctory smile, which Talar supposed was a cordially veiled order.

"Would you like a drink?" asked Lang. "We've got everything at the bar."

"Still water would be great, thanks."

Lang nodded, making his way across the glossy, pitch-black expanse of floor to the bar - a sleek, equally glossy and pitch-black structure, fringed by slim lines of fine white LEDs. Delacourt and Bryant seated themselves on barstools that would have been nearly invisible if not for their cushioned black seats. Lang called to the four droids standing sentry behind the bar, and Talar watched as two sprang into action, one producing a highball glass so quickly it appeared to be out of nowhere, then filling it with ice and a garnish of lemon, and the other slinging a bottle from the fridge and popping the cap, in no longer than five seconds. Lang rushed back over, handed Talar her drink, and then joined the others, leaving Talar to follow her directive.

To call it 'visually arresting' wouldn't have done the place justice. What immediately caught her attention were the walls; massive floor-to-ceiling video screens, displaying a synchronized, panoramic wrap-around slideshow of static 3D photographs, changing what she estimated to be around every 20 seconds. The roof, too, was an extension of those screens, replicating the sky. It was like being inside a living world, separated only by transparent glass from landscapes so strikingly realistic, that. had she not known she was inside a club hundreds of feet underground, and had there not been a passageway breaking the continuity beside the entrance door, she would certainly have been fooled.

The first was a night-time, aerial cityscape of the torus' vast and vibrant entertainment district; sleek skyscrapers, pavilions and bridges, highlighted with LED strip lighting and tasteful fluorescent and neon accents. The second, another nocturnal shot, this time looking upward at a starry, dark indigo sky from a glittering but bleak, snow-carpeted landscape, with widely-spaced candle-like sculptures that more resembled calcified rocks than snow-covered trees. The tiny legend at the bottom right corner of the screen read "Trysil, Norway, 2143".

In the third, a blood-red seascape of Bolivia's Laguna Colorada, also dated 2143, followed by the alien landscape of Thor Peak in Canada's Auyuittuq National Park. Same date. And then, the spectacular azure blue of Earth as seen from the torus, like a resplendent jewel floating in space. No date. The place may have been a relative dump compared with the impossible opulence of Elysium, but from a distance it looked magnificent.

It only dawned on her how long she had stood there, captivated by the scene, when Lang's German-accented voice cut through her reverie, startling her. Talar hadn't even noticed him approach her from behind.

"They change every 20 seconds," he said.

"These were all taken last year..." she aloud. "Do those places still exist?"

He nodded, then, with a wistful smile, continued: "There are still many, many beautiful places on Earth-"

*_And I wish I could spend more time here,_* that smile said.

"We have a team travel around every year, documenting them for our database, 10,000 of which we use here."

"Only 10,000?" she ventured, jokily. The situation had become informal enough for slight touches of humor here and there.

Lang responded with a small chuckle. "And they're on permanent shuffle, so you never see the same sequence twice."

"What about the music?"

"Oh, we've got over a million tracks. They're on permanent shuffle, too; although you can organize your own playlists, and there's a palmtop attached to each table so the agents can request anything they want."

"Wow.. You really have pulled out all the stops here."

"We do our best-" for a moment, Talar could have sworn something flashed through the man's pale eyes - he had faltered for an instant – although it wasn't any immediately recognizable emotion, "-although we don't serve meals."

Then he was gone again, off towards the passageway to the direct left of the entrance door which now comprised part of the video screen. Talar wondered what that tiny flicker had meant. Perhaps he was ashamed that they didn't serve meals? Or maybe the system was prone to glitches, and she was just lucky to have arrived on a good day? She didn't dwell on it.

The room looked around the size of her new Earth house – a good 2000 sq ft at least. At the far left corner sat a lucite dining table, accommodating eight black leather upholstered lucite chairs. Its twin sat several meters away from the far right corner, parallel with the entrance door. Against the video wall, in between, were a series of sofas with matching black sofa chairs clustered around lucite coffee tables, and a few meters each side of the bar stood a high table and four stools. The bar itself seated eight. Upon closer inspection of the lounge area, Talar noticed grooves in the floor between and in front of each cluster. Lang chose that moment to materialize beside her, nearly making her jump for the second time.

For crying out loud, she shouldn't still be this nervous.

"Those are for screens," he pointed out. "If someone's sat here smoking, the smoke detector raises the screens, effectively sealing the area, so that others don't have to breathe it in. As soon as the smoke stops, the extractor fan kicks in and the screens retract."

"Nice," Talar nodded. As a smoker herself she had always lamented having to trot outside just to get her fix. Even the formidable medbays couldn't cure addiction, and ironically, that would be the one thing she would choose to use them for. "Is it the same in my office, or...? Am I permitted to smoke in there?"

"Of course you are. And yes, there are extractor fans in there, too. You could chain smoke and it would still be fresh as a summer breeze."

Talar smiled, sipping her drink.

She walked over to the passageway set back from the lounge area, Lang towing her. Around twenty feet down, two glossy, midnight-dark, walls, framed by tracks of white light, led to an opening onto a t-junction which disappeared behind the lounge walls. At the end of the passageway, two shining LED logos, embedded in the onyx-black wall, pointed to the respective male and female toilets. No disabled, though; the Bureau obviously weren't an equal opportunities employer.

"You have your own toilet by your office," Lang said.

"Mind if I go and take a look?"

"Not at all."

Talar traversed the corridor to the t-junction, then turned right in the direction of the ladies' toilets. In keeping with everything else she had seen thus far, the room was spotless. It boasted the same color scheme as the lounge, with wall and ceiling video screens, but the floor was panelled and glowing white, and the six cubicles and their respective basins were also white. Two minutes later, she discovered the mens' was the same.

Well damn, you could take the workplace out of Elysium, but you couldn't take Elysium out of the workplace.

Emerging into the main space, she noticed the vague outline of a door at the corner of the left hand wall.

"What's that over there?" she asked, pointing.

His eyes on the door and not her, Lang replied, in what could have been a tellingly hurried manner, "That's in your manual. File 12."

He had told her yesterday that there were some things, simple things, that didn't really merit explanation, and that such things could be found in a dossier on the computer. But his reply seemed a little hasty. Perhaps he was just impatient to get the tour over and done with – maybe he had bladder issues and, despite having gone to the toilet only minutes before, already needed to go again? Or maybe he was eager to be away from Bryant and her superior? It was probably nothing. Given the meticulously high standard of tidiness and order at the Bureau, it could simply be that that particular room was a store cupboard with a marginally misaligned shelf. One paperclip out of place would have been enough to make most CCB employees have a fit.

A second passed, before Lang chimed, "Shall we go and see your office?"

Talar nodded. She followed him back to the bar, where the other two women stood up, both neatly uncrossing their legs and swivelling their bodies round, to hop down with a grace and poise alien to Talar's often clumsy movements. Bar stools were an obstacle she had never learned to navigate, especially when wearing heels. It was a quality her brothers and Yasmin found endearing, but that never failed to irritate her. There was absolutely no reason getting down from a bar stool should be such an ordeal, but for her, it was.

With Lang at her front and Delacourt and Bryant at her back, Talar was led to the left side of the counter, where a droid opened a small gate to allow them into the bar proper. In the middle of the bar, flanked by two clear, backlit cabinets, both housing a series of transparent shelves crammed with an impressive variety of drinks, stood a transparent door. It opened instantly, without anyone's command, giving way to an ample corridor approximately 50 feet long. Gleaming, slightly off-white floor and ceiling. Widely panelled, backlit walls, echoing the smooth transitions between white and blue of the previous vestibule.

There was a door – trussed up like the wall - almost immediately to her left, and another one at the end of the left hand wall. Four more doors were spaced evenly along the right hand wall.

"Far left," said Lang, "is the store cupboard for a nuclear emergency. In there you'll find the nuke suits, the rations, additional breathing apparatus, etc. On the right is the toilet, then the kitchenette, the stock room, and finally the medbay room."

Talar wondered why he would explain those basic things and not the door in the lounge, but quickly reasoned the latter was probably something irrelevant. Either that, it was a portal to another dimension; a parallel universe where Heidi Bryant could be trusted to keep secrets, and agents by the name of C.M. Kruger never visited the Bureau's underground clubs.

*_Oh for fuck's sake..._* There was absolutely no reason for someone she had never met, and who was forbidden from harming her, to be messing with her head like this. It was ludicrous. It had been a long, long time since she'd found such difficulty in keeping that horrible little dissenting voice at bay; the one that railed against all her practicality and rationality and just ran around wild, driven by childish emotion. Not even Superbitch Gossip Monger Bryant was capable of doing that.

Opening the first door for her, Lang said with a warm smile, "And welcome to your new office."

Stepping inside, Talar could only mouth another silent 'wow'. As with the rest of the facility, no expense had been spared – approximately 700 square foot of bright space, with what could have easily been mistaken for a floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking a vast metropolis, had she not already seen the screens in the club. The picture faded into a breath-taking aerial shot of Zambia's Victoria Falls, which then morphed into a stunning nocturnal capture of a bioluminescent shoreline of Puerto Mosquito, Puerto Rico.

"You can turn the slideshow off in here if you find it too distracting," commented Lang, "or pause it, choose from one of our 100 screensavers, or even select your own loop if you wish. Although the office has the same photos as the club itself, they're controlled from separate areas. HQ sets the ones out there, whereas you can control the ones in here if you feel like it. Very simple procedure, just like making any photographic slideshow or musical playlist. You can play music in here, too, if you wish."

"Thanks," Talar replied, giving a curt nod.

Unlike the club, however, the ceiling was the same off-white as that of the corridor, with three lines of recessed LED lights running the length of the ceiling. The floor, too, matched the corridor's. Smack bang in the center of the room, in the middle of a cream, velvety rug, stood an ample lucite desk. An admin droid sat unoccupied at the desk, in a chrome and cream leather swivel chair, facing the opposite wall. On the shiny surface, two razor-thin laptops, equipped with wireless battery chargers, sat upright, their transparent LCD monitors reflecting the image on the screens around them.

Lang went on: "The left laptop is for your work, and correspondence with us. The right contains the manual, and the music and visuals databases, all of which are self explanatory."

She nodded.

"So," the notably less clipped Delacourt spoke up, "what do you think?"

"I love it," Talar enthused. Her reply was genuine, even if the warmth she attempted to put in it wasn't so much. "I love everything here. It's just beautiful."

And she meant it. The place was a triumph of architecture, art, and design, just like the habitat she had grown up in. It was almost as if she hadn't left home at all.

She waited on another name drop, but it never came. Instead: "Good, because 12 hours a day is a long time."

Requisite chuckles from the other two.

That had been one of her few gripes, albeit minor, about the position. 9am-9pm, five days a week. Even two hours in total for breaks and lunch, which could be taken whenever she chose, still left a working day two hours longer than her normal one; and whilst the work wasn't complicated or difficult, there was a lot of it. But with surroundings like this, it would be infinitely more bearable...even with a group of South African ex cons hanging out in the lounge. Or at least, she hoped.

"Just make sure you don't end up lost in daydreams for most of it. We don't pay for overtime. And Henry here-" she tilted her head at the droid, "-will only step in for you in emergencies."

"That won't be a problem, Ma'am."

The copper-blonde woman fixed her with yet another off-putting smile – one that appeared deeper than merely perfunctory, although Talar still couldn't fathom as to why – before turning to usher the group out of the office.

Just as they reached the door, Talar heard a beep. Delacourt turned, promptly striding over to the desk. Lang and Bryant stayed put, but Talar followed. On the left laptop, a pop-up screen in the Bureau's distinctive black and orange color scheme now decorated the monitor. In her two day training for the position, Talar had learned that this was notification of an agent entering, and later leaving, the warehouse. It also appeared on the wrist comm device she would have to wear during breaks.

The text on the pop-up read: "ARRIVAL. Agent A. T. Botha." Arrivals and exits used only agents' real names, which was handy, given that their code names didn't seem to follow any specific alphanumeric structure. When questioned about this, Lang had told Talar that the First Generation – or the Gen 1s as they were commonly referred to – had been allowed to choose part of their code name, but that every generation since then had simply been designated them, although there was no telling an agent's generation simply from their code name.

Of the 100 files she had seen last week, Talar would have been hard pressed to remember many besides the top 5, even if shown their photos. By that merit, all she could conclude about Botha was that he, or she, wasn't one of the top ranking bad boys.

Delacourt turned to her charge. "Seeing as he's here, would you like to meet Botha?"

Talar had to think quickly – whether it was a genuine invitation or some sort of test, one thing the Defense Secretary despised was indecisiveness; another was dawdling. Fortunately, Talar wasn't regularly to prone to either, or at the very least could fake it.

"I would, Ma'am," she replied, forcing a confident nod; not that she was nervous or reluctant to meet this particular underling, but that she hadn't fully made up her own mind yet. She wondered for a moment whether this Botha guy had turned up to glimpse his new superior, but quickly reasoned against it. Officially her tenure began tomorrow, and although she knew that this had already been broadcast to the Earth-based assets, they would have had no way of knowing she was being shown around today...unless of course Botha was one of the aforementioned Gen 1s who, according to Bryant, camped out for a week... in which case he would probably be acquainted with-

*_Shut up._*

To Talar's reassurance, the older woman looked pleased.

"Do you remember which one he is?" gibed Bryant, in a nauseatingly angelic tone, to a complete lack of admonishment from the others.

"I'm afraid not," Talar responded, managing to sound semi-assertive. "I only saw his file once."

The rankings dossier, she had been informed, was different than the one used here. The latter was less extensive, Lang had said, and files were organized alphabetically.

"No matter," said Delacourt. "Within a week you'll probably know them all off by heart."

The position didn't require Talar to be versed in any of the agents' details, or even remember their code names. Hers was simply to deliver information to them and back to HQ; even briefing them in person happened with relative infrequency, as most operations could simply be relayed electronically.

"For your information, Botha is a Fifth Generation," explained Delacourt as she ushered Talar from the room.

*_Thank fuck for that._*

"A very talented young man from the Cape Flats in South Africa."

*_Oh._*

Fortunately, she didn't allow Talar a chance to respond, and neither did she study the younger woman's face as they walked; if she had, she would have seen the transitory but perceptible shift in demeanor that may have instilled doubt in her, perhaps ending Talar's career down here before it had even gotten off the ground. If there was another thing the Defense Secretary could not abide, it was people unfit for their positions. Until now, Talar had proved a sort of exception to the rule, having worked below her station for the better part of a decade.

"We found him thirty three years ago," she continued as she lead the group back into the bar proper. "A gangster and drug dealer, but with remarkable heart, believe it or not. What really impressed us, however, was his athleticism and fighting ability."

They exited the bar, seating themselves on the stools, Delacourt to the far right, followed by Talar, Lang, and lastly Bryant, who Talar heard ordering mineral waters for them all.

"We watched him for months, even had him protected without his knowledge, in case any sort of trouble were to befall him; not that he ever required our intervention. We'd never seen a man fight like that, with such stamina. And he never drove a vehicle; he used to sprint from place to place like an Olympic athlete, sometimes barefoot."

Four clinks of glass against a polished surface sounded before them. Damn, those droids were fast.

A genuine sparkle shone in the woman's eyes, and Talar realized she was witnessing yet another side to this IceMare of legend; a side enthusiastic about her work, and proud of her employees. A side that was capable of sincere, human emotions.

Or this was a clone. Given Elysian society's technological prowess, that wouldn't be entirely out of the question. That cloning was never spoken of meant nothing; after all, wasn't the Devil's finest trick to convince the world he didn't exist?

But if that were the case, then what if there were clones of Heidi Bryant, too?

*_Oh Dear Lord..._* Then the woman's legacy of snideyness would truly never die. And what if there were clones of-

*_Do you want to drive yourself to self destruction? Because you're going the right way about it._*

No. The Devil did exist, and her name was Heidi Bryant. Case closed.

"That's amazing," Talar replied, wanting to say more but nothing occurring to her other than that one, burning question, which she reckoned would be met with hysterics at best, or with scorn at worst.

*_Yes, he's from South Africa so _of course _he knows the other guys. They probably all work in the same team or unit or cell or whatever it's called, simply because they're from the same country. Oh please._*

"And in case you were wondering what he does, he's one of our so-called 'sleeper agents'. I say so-called because quite a few of them rarely do any 'sleeping'. He's based in Las Vegas but travels around the world mostly every week. Black ops."

Aka guard dogs. The really nasty ones, with the biggest teeth.

*_OK, calm down. That still doesn't mean-_*

"I'm sure you're aware that we have many of those. They are of course essential for our well-being."

"Absolutely," she replied, with a brisk nod, before taking a sip of water. Her bladder would be complaining soon - she'd only finished her first one five minutes ago. And then she made what would have been her second mistake – what would have surely given the lovely Miss Bryant yet more ammo, had her voice not been lowered, and had Bryant not been in conversation with Lang: "I did notice a number of South Africans, mostly from the late 20th and early 21st century."

*_You world class fool, Tal. You absolute fucking imbecile. And how do you know she didn't overhear you anyway?_*

Delacourt sipped her drink. "Indeed. Are you not familiar with people from that part of the world?" She looked honestly curious rather than judgemental.

"Not really."

"Many of our First Generation come from, and came from, there. It's always been a tough country to live in, even today, and produces some of the most formidable soldiers. Not always the most _personable_ of men, but consummate professionals when it comes to their work. We wouldn't be without them."

Another nod. It was somewhat heartening to hear the mighty Defense Secretary expressing some humility.

"Botha, however, is very personable. You'll have absolutely no problems with him."

And bang on cue, the entry door beeped.

* * *

**AN 2**

Other than Botha, guess who's up next? Yes, that's right, muahahahaha!


	5. Chapter 5

**AN**

- 'bog' is British slang for 'toilet'. Likewise, 'bog standard' is British slang for average, dull, or even mediocre. ~ as in the movie itself, we're just going to have to assume that today's slang still exists in 2144. One of the few vital suspensions of disbelief, I'm afraid; because much as I'd love to invent an entirely new vernacular, it wouldn't capture the cultural identities I'm trying to portray in this story.

- by virtue of knowing a few South Africans from Germiston (who I credit with getting me to see D9 in the first place), I was fortunate enough to get some of the inside track on Kruger and his guys. Not giving anything away, but let's just say that if you're unfamiliar with 'Saffa' culture there will be certain things you'll miss when watching the film; and, furthermore, things you may (naturally) assume (and had I not seen Elysium with these wonderful gals, I would have assumed mistakenly, too).

My continued thanks to the usual suspects for the usual stuff :)

I own nothing.

* * *

**CHAPTER 5**

Henry the admin droid stood motionless in the corner, biding his time until his new superior decided to take a break. It was now approaching midday, and, save one cup of coffee and trip to the toilet, Talar had thus far robbed him of his newfound daytime duties. Good things droids didn't have feelings, because Talar got the sense old Henry would have been very precious about his position here.

Although her work day didn't begin until 0900, the place was open to her and the fellow agents 24/7, with droids manning the post in the hours of her absence. Looking every inch the businesswoman starlet she wasn't, she had arrived an hour before to browse the manual, the alphabetically ordered agents' dossier, the screensavers, and to create playlists for the lounge and her office. Beginning with the agents' dossier, she had skipped through the A's and B's – noting that, unlike the ranking dossier and even the alerts, middle initials were not included - until she stopped at Botha's file, lingering to read it, a faint smile on her face. True to Delacourt's word, the man was charming, and not in that false, simpering way so common at the Bureau. So friendly and easy going was he that Talar wondered how such a person could work in such a violent profession. Needs must, she guessed. When the Bureau recruited you, Yasmin had told her, they did so with an attractive paypacket that would have most people happily handing over their souls. They paid you to be able to compartmentalize.

Botha was attractive, too. A Cape Colored – which in South African terms meant diversely racially mixed, rather than simply half black and half white – with curly, close-cropped dark hair, caramel brown skin, and eyes of the most astoundingly pale turquoise Talar had ever seen, which looked all the more striking for his tan complexion and semi 'black' features. Twenty five for the last thirty three years, a little over six foot, and with a wiry, runner's physique, he was entirely the sort of man Talar went for. Four metal grafts adorned his face; one on each cheekbone, and matching ones slightly below his forehead, which Lang later explained were for the ease of keeping headgear on - goggles, visors, helmets, special glasses and the like. The only kicker was when he opened his mouth, to much-concealed amusement from the others in the group at her reaction. Whilst his accent was a strange, musical one, what really surprised her were his teeth – or rather, the lack of them. His four front teeth were missing; something Talar, coming from a world of flawless dentistry, had never seen in her entire life. Fortunately, either he had anticipated such a reaction, or he was too easy going to take offense, laughing genially and fixing her with a warm, reassuring smile. He had explained that the 'passion gap' or 'Cape Flats smile' was a Colored tradition harking back to the early 20th century, and that the Bureau had been lenient enough to let him keep it and wear dentures instead.

He was a regular at the club, he had said, whether with colleagues or alone. He often came there in the morning simply to gaze at the pretty pictures.

"I don't blame you," Talar had replied. When the venue was quiet, it made a wonderful place to relax and chill out. Had she been an asset on Earth, she would have gone out of her way to visit here, too.

She had left, secretly hoping he would turn up tomorrow and stay for her break, even though fraternizing with the assets was implicitly frowned upon... not that she got ahead of herself hoping anything would come of it, of course. His amicability didn't necessarily equate to any sort of romantic interest. Besides, a sweet guy like him probably had a girlfriend or wife, and wouldn't be the type to cheat on her.

The rest of the B's had flown by, as had the C's, until, bizarrely, something had caused her to pause at the one of ex South African Air Force pilot C. Crowe. She put it down to that strange sort of synchronicity that often occurred following something of impact; a chance meeting with a very attractive person with a rare first name, or from a little known place, suddenly had people of the same name or from the same place appearing everywhere. It didn't have to be of any consequence.

Neither had it been of any consequence that she lingered at Kruger's file. Curiosity at best. Morbid curiosity. And curiously, his first initial in this file was M, not C. It was highly uncommon for mistakes such as this to be made at the Bureau - although, she supposed, not impossible – so perhaps he had changed his name.

She had pushed Mr. Annihilistic Personality Disorder from her mind and promptly moved on, pausing only at R for the Lithuanian whizz kid's file. O. Ramanauskas. The O stood for Osvaldas, she remembered. She really hoped she would get to meet him, simply to see in the flesh the teenage boy who had brought down the entire New World Government and lived to tell the tale. Of course, it wasn't something she would dare discuss it with him, just in case; although monitored by members of Yasmin's team, the CCTVs all had audio as a precautionary measure against invaders or turncoats. Talar's alliance with the head of CCTV operations wouldn't have been enough to protect her from castigation if she were to speak out against the authorities. She had said as much to Yasmin last night over radio phone, the latter suggesting that if she had anything dissenting to say, say it when the place was crowded and the music loud, because then all sound was virtually unintelligible anyway. It was one of the scant few chinks in the security's armor, and Yasmin was surprised that a more sophisticated system hadn't been employed yet.

She had gotten a little sidetracked, perusing the agents' dossier, and the jaw-dropping quantity of photographs and musical tracks, at the expense of the manual. But there was no onus on her to get it read today - whatever lay behind that mysterious door would have to wait.

Come 0900, she was primed and ready for the day. And she was glad for it – the first assignment arrived at exactly 0901. In the two hours and fifty minutes since, eight agents had arrived; all of whom, just as Delacourt had said, were from intelligence, and none that she recalled from the higher ranks of the dirtiest list. Three had since left.

Then, a notification flashed up on her screen, immediately eliciting another smile.

Botha.

Although she wasn't hungry yet, she was technically at liberty to use her two hours of break time however she pleased. There was no reason why she couldn't spend five minutes making polite conversation with him, provided he was so inclined.

She continued working for the next four minutes – from the first point of egress it took five to reach the club proper - before rising from her desk.

"Break," she spoke into her bracelet, which instantly began clocking the seconds.

She snapped on her wrist comm – an impressive little device by the now Armadyne-owned Bulgari, fashioned in the style of a platinum wristwatch – and made her way out of the room, pausing briefly at the door to watch Henry take up her place.

She stepped into the bar moments before Botha did. He strode in confidently, dressed in military fatigues. He had a job with a few Gen 1s in several hours, she knew, in Liberia. Relayed to him yesterday by Henry, Delacourt had said; what was considered a 'non-essential' operation, which meant anything that didn't require instantaneous activation. She hadn't pressed the woman for further details; and, mercifully, Bryant hadn't offered any, which likely meant aforementioned Gen 1s weren't any of the guys Talar was worried about.

The Cape Colored greeted her with a surprised but legitimately pleased smile, which she mirrored with equal legitimacy. He took a seat at the bar, ordering a Castle lager. Talar noticed the absence of dentures.

"How's it going so far?" he asked genially, in that uniquely lyrical accent, as if she were an established friend rather than his superior.

"Fine," she replied honestly. "I didn't expect there to be so much going on so early in the day, frankly, but it's good. I like to keep busy."

"Definitely," he said. "But even if you weren't, you could never get bored here."

She nodded, glancing at the video walls, which currently displayed a glorious sunrise capture of Spirit Island in Canada's Jasper National Park. Botha followed her gaze, before meeting her eyes again. He really did have the most astounding irises.

"How long have you been coming here?"

"Ever since I was recruited. So, thirty two years."

"Have they always had this...set up?"

"In the lounge, yeah. Not in the toilets. Have you seen those?"

"I have."

"That was only two years ago."

"You're lucky. My toilet's just standard. Bog standard, you might say."

'Bog standard' was a term taught to her by a school friend whose parents hailed from England. It conveyed a notion of something average or mediocre. She hoped no-one at the CCB would haul her up over it.

He tittered, evidently aware of the term, which impressed her. "But swanky bog standard though, right?"

"Oh, definitely. It's like an upmarket hotel suite. And you could fit a family of twenty giants in there."

Her wrist comm beeped, and she excused herself to look.

The color must have drained from her face, because her new acquaintance asked in an overly concerned tone if she was all right.

*_Fuck._*

This couldn't be happening. Shouldn't, rather. But Yasmin, it seemed, had been correct. And by omission Bryant had been lying about Botha's team today, the devious little so and so.

"ARRIVAL: Agent C. M. Kruger" read the text.

"I'm fine," she lied, despite knowing she had already given herself away. She was a big girl now, a professional, and the least she could do was try to behave like one. If you fell down, you just got right back up again. Then you put your best foot forward, and if you couldn't recover then you damn well pretended to. If you could learn how to fake it and convince others, you might just end up convincing yourself, and that was better than nothing. And whilst Botha wouldn't have been convinced, he was at least considerate enough to play along. "But I think one of your team's here."

The comm beeped again: "ARRIVAL: Agent R. B. Drake."

*_Ohhh fuck._*

"Oh?"

"Two. Kruger, and Dra-"

Another beep: "ARRIVAL: Agent C. T. Crowe."

Yep. Of course he would be bringing his buddies. There was no possible way the universe was going to take pity on her now.

"Kruger, Drake and Crowe."

"Brilliant," he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Another beep: "ARRIVAL: Agent P. D. Swanepoel."

"And Swanepoel."

Botha sighed.

If Botha didn't like these guys, it looked even worse for her.

"ARRIVAL: Agent E. L. Khumalo."

"Khumalo too."

"Even better." The sarcasm was clear as day now.

"ARRIVAL: Agent J. W. Mahlangu."

"How about Mahlangu?"

Another sigh. "That'll be my team. They never turn up this early. I guess the new girl's popular."

Talar was struck by his honesty. From her brief sojourn in his company, she got the distinct impression that this man was indeed the amenable person his superiors reputed him to be. What was more, he seemed without artifice, except when it was of some benefit to himself or others. His responses were no throwaway remarks; they seemed horribly like a warning. His momentary eyebrow raise added further weight to this. He was telling her it was her cue to make her excuses and return to work.

So why was she rooted to the spot all of a sudden? Why did the pragmatism and sensibility that had seen her through life thus far suddenly decide to desert her? Was it morbid curiosity? Misplaced pride? A gnawing, perhaps self-destructive need to step the farthest outside her comfort zone she had ever ventured? Did she want, at the very least, to show herself up as an indecisive little doe, incapable of acting for herself; or, equally as bad, a reckless fool, a law-unto-herself idiot, in front of an attractive man who was simply trying to help her? Either way, she wasn't exactly establishing herself as the Bureau's most capable or professional representative right now...and that wasn't the Talar Sampson she knew. She wondered if her old self had perhaps been left behind on Elysium.

A brief look of expectation shone in Botha's clear eyes - "come on," he was saying, imploring her, "go!" - but then it disappeared. Maybe he understood her predicament - or at least, was gracious enough not to judge her for it – and was simply trying not to patronize her? Or maybe he had already written her off as the foolish, incompetent little damsel that she was appearing to be, and had given up? There was also the possibility, albeit remote, that he'd suddenly found faith in her ability to handle what was coming her way. Perhaps his new superior had a courage and a strength that neither of them could have imagined?

Unlikely.

To be fair, though, she still had four minutes. She may very well find the drive to move by then. Perhaps she was merely a little stunned right now, like the saying about a deer in the-

Bad choice of allusion. What usually happened to deer in the headlights?

No, that was rabbits. Deer were smarter than rabbits, and big enough for Earth car drivers to worry about damaging their vehicle for them to plough right through...

What? She was arguing with herself over the realities of a God damn idiom now? Because whilst she was stood there wasting precious time, those minutes were ticking down. That oncoming vehicle cared not whether she was a deer, a rabbit, a human, or a being from the next galaxy; it was not going to stop, regardless.

Making sure to keep her tone neutral, she addressed Botha: "Have you ever been to any of the places in the photos?"

What was she doing, for crying out loud?

Botha looked at the screen to his right – a luminous daytime shot of pale beige sand dunes and a rippling teal lagoon in Brazil's Lençóis Maranhenses National Park – and then replied "Quite a few, ja. Perks of the profession."

She near expected him to shoot her a 'are you fucking insane?!' look, but he didn't. It was obvious that, save forcibly escorting her back to her office, he knew he'd done all he could. God, she felt horrendously ungrateful; he had tried to help her, and she'd as good as told him his advice was about as useful as a bicycle for a fish.

"I hope I do, one day," she said wistfully.

*_Why are you not moving?!_*

"You have weekends off, don't you?"

"I do."

"Then-" he made an explanatory gesture.

*_Perhaps you could show me some of them, personally?_*

She nodded. "Nothing stopping me."

*_Come on, ask me if I'd like some company. Please?_*

He didn't; although the hint of a smile, the faint but possibly suggestive twinkle in his eyes, offered her a glimmer of hope. So maybe he _was_ interested?

*_Stop it._* If merely fraternizing with assets was implicitly discouraged, anything further, even with decent ones such as Botha, might not be grounds for dismissal but it may very well earn her a caution. That was, if they didn't go about it discreetly, outside of working hours. Provided she did her job, and he did his, where was the harm? Besides, out there all alone in that isolated house – house droids weren't exactly the most skilled conversationalists – wasn't it natural that she would seek some physical, human company? There was no stipulation in her contract, even in the fine print, that she avoid relationships with assets under any circumstance, so...

Three minutes now. Ample time.

"I take it you've visited the torus?" she continued. Yasmin had told her that, except for Gen 1s, assets weren't granted citizenship purely by virtue of working for the Bureau. If you didn't have the money, you couldn't get in, period. Talar doubted that, as a Gen 5, even with his generous wage Botha likely still fell short financially. However, as an asset, he at least had the privilege of being allowed to visit whenever he chose.

"Plenty of times. I'd like to buy a house up there eventually. One of those Mediterranean-looking ones. I know they just finished building a few of those, and I really wanted to get a deposit down on one of them, after all these years, but I didn't quite have enough. Next year, maybe."

"Property up there's expensive even for the best of us, even the smallest houses. If it's any consolation, I'm still living at my parents'. I can't even afford a deposit yet."

Even for established citizens, the authorities were extremely tight with mortgages. Talar had always found it a false economy - if they just relaxed the terms and conditions a little they could be making money on the scores of unoccupied properties dotting the habitat, rather than have their splendor wasted on house droids. She had even heard that, albeit very infrequently, illegal shuttles would land near to the empty properties so that Earthlings with false identifications could break in and use the medbays. Where and how the transporters gathered their intelligence, however, was a mystery. Perhaps they had simply struck lucky...or they knew someone on the inside? Although rarer, Talar knew she couldn't be the only Earthling sympathizer on the habitat. For the majority of Elysians, though, the plight of Earth's poorer inhabitants was simply a case of out of sight, out of mind.

"Slat my dood met n pap snoek, man!"

"Excuse me?"

He chuckled. "That's Vannie Toun – Cape Flats - language. Means I'm surprised."

"Did I hear 'snook' in there? As in, the fish?"

"Ja. The fish."

"I'm not even going to ask for a literal translation."

He grinned. "It's not rude. I could have said worse."

"You could, and unless it involved snook I'd be none the wiser. I know absolutely zero...err..any South African language, I'm afraid."

"At least you know we have more than one. Everyone I've met thinks we just have Afrikaans."

"That's the main one though, isn't it? You'll have to excuse my ignorance here."

He waved his hand permissively. "S'fine. In the Cape Flats we speak a variant of Afrikaans, which we call kapie-taal; I haven't been back there for thirty years but according to the media nothing's changed. If you're going purely by statistics though, the main languages are Zulu and Xhosa, then I think Afrikaans, Sepedi, English... There are six more after that."

"What's that in relation to your team?" and she meant it out of sincere curiosity, rather than prompting him to remind her she really should be leaving now.

"Khumalo and Mahlungu are Xhosa. Swanepoel is an Afrikaner – we call them Boers. Kruger, Crowe and Drake are English- I mean, Anglophones. English is their first language."

"Kruger's English?"

"Ja. As many generations back as he can remember, so he says."

"Another schoolfriend of mine had South African parents. She had an Afrikaner name but the family were all Anglophones. She said something about wanting to appear more culturally progressive."

"That's right, for some people. There's always been discord between Afrikaans speakers and English ones, ever since the first settlements. It's a long and complicated story, but basically, several times over the course of history a minority of Afrikaners felt their ethnicity was holding them back, or they disagreed with Afrikaner politics, so for these reasons they adopted the English culture and language. Some changed their family names, but an equal number kept them and wore them as a badge of pride to show how far they'd come from their Afrikaner origins."

"Really?"

"Ja. I think, though, when Kruger says as far back as he can remember, he may be referring to something the history books call the Great Trek; and that might be the same for your friend, too. Long story short, during 1835-1845 there was a major disagreement between the Afrikaners and the British in the Cape Colony over race relations between blacks and whites. Most Afrikaners wanted blacks and whites to keep separate; British didn't. So around 15,000 Afrikaners left the Cape Colony, and many of the ones who didn't sided with the British; in your friend's words, it was more culturally progressive for blacks and whites to mix. She could be referring to Apartheid, though."

"I've heard about that. We covered it briefly at school."

"Mmm hmm. That was brought about by the Afrikaner government. Kinda ironic that I've got black ancestry and my first language is Afrikaans, and that English speakers use masses of Afrikaans slang and sing Afrikaans nursery rhymes to their kids; but that's South Africa for you. It's a strange place at times, even now."

"Does the passion gap tradition still exist?"

"Yep. Still going strong. There was an era when it nearly died out, back in the mid 21st century, but then a sporting hero revived it."

Ever since the mid 1900's, Talar had learned in History Studies, sport, music and the cult of celebrity, as opposed to religion, had been the opiate of the masses. It was still the case today. Sport played an even more important role in Earth life, with sporting heroes and Olympic gold medalists garnering sponsorship details lucrative enough to buy them properties on Elysium. Of all the entertainments, sport was the most emblematic of dedication, training, a steadfast desire to compete and win. And, unlike acting and music and the other tenets of the industry, it was the one area in which the underdog truly had a fighting chance.

"So, do you wear your dentures when you visit?" she said genially.

He chuckled. "They wouldn't let me in otherwise."

"Really?"

"Deadly serious. And if I removed them in public everyone would run away screaming."

They shared a small laugh.

"When I was having my medical assessment there, the first physician I saw looks at me and says-" he cleared his throat, sitting up straight and affecting the poise of a typically doctorly type, like that of her English schoolfriend's father, ""Good grief! Whatever happened to your teeth, young man?!"." His attempt at an upper class English accent wasn't perfect, but he had the mannerisms and affectation nailed.

She laughed. "That's a fantastic impression, actually."

He mirrored her.

That was when the entry door opened, and Talar realized with gut wrenching certainty that her time was up.

Unexpectedly, first into the room wasn't the hawkish evildoer of legend, but an imposingly tall, well built man clad in the same military fatigues as Botha's, who looked as if he'd just stepped off a rugby pitch. Strong jaw, blond buzz cut, blue eyes, slightly sunburned skin, and what Lang had told her were the standard facial implants.

"...But he mispelled it-" the man said ebulliently, in an accent as foreign as that of his enforced comrade. The music was unobtrusive enough for loud voices to be heard clearly. "He wrote 'maningful' relationship. I was like "Ja! Always knew he was that was inclined!" haha. _Freudian slips_ and in _vino veritas!_"

Talar gathered this had to be Swanepoel – the guy at #96 on the Dirtiest list.

"And now you're just showing off!" chimed another voice - a distinctly black African accent - belonging to the next guy through the door. Average height and build, rich brown skin, wide-set eyes and cheekbones, generous lips. Mahlungu. #93. "Freudian slips. In vino veritas."

And then... the man himself.

Talar's blood suddenly ran cold, and it was all she could do not to gulp.

"Hey, boet," he barked to Swanepoel jokily, his voice a coarse tenor and his accent rough as sandpaper, "stop it before it becomes contagious and someone actually learns something. I for one don't want my fucking ignorance undermined."

He was indubitably the man from the photos, except his hair and beard were longer, and he was sporting a tan. And there was something about his eyes; they seemed darker, although that could have simply been the light. His body, too, was far leaner than she had imagined. Both files had put his weight at 180lbs/81kgs, for which Talar would have anticipated someone bulkier; but even clothed, she could tell he was anything but.

"Hey, it's Botha!" he cheered, as the remaining three men – easily recognizable as Drake, Crowe, and finally Khumalo - filed in. Botha didn't react. "Guy's missing a tooth and the look just doesn't work. He's a perfect example of how the tooth really hurts."

The rest of the group guffawed. Looking indifferent, Botha merely shrugged, muttering to Talar "Don't worry. I'm used to it."

"And _hello_!" Kruger continued to his group, shooting a missile of a glance in Talar's direction – and she _felt_ it; it actually stung - "Is this our girl?"

Her cantering heart started to speed up, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck responded, standing to attention.

"She's come to greet us, Boss!" Drake cracked.

"What did I tell you, eh?" 'Boss' cackled. Dear God... both his accent and timbre of voice themselves were _horrendous_. "Five star hospitality, boys!"

He levelled his gaze at Talar as he approached – a stealthy, predatory focus, single-mindedly honing in on the kill... and it was only when Talar attempted to look away when she realized, with panic swelling in her gut, that she was paralyzed. There was a wild, savage animal behind those eyes; a caged one, its snarling barely repressed, but one with enough smarts to know it had to feign some degree of domesticity in order to survive. This 'domesticated' animal may not harm her, may not scratch, bite, or maul her, but she could sense beyond any doubt that, psychologically, he was going to give her hell. And there was an air about him that stated, with cool but unshakeable confidence, that he knew exactly what she was and what she felt, and that there was nothing she could do to hide it; and it chilled her right to the bone, made her feel utterly naked, exposed, and vulnerable. She _was_ that deer in the headlights, ready to be taken out either by the car in front of her...or the wolf waiting by the sideline – the one who had been tailing her all along. Either one was him - both, even – and either way, she was doomed.

* * *

**AN 2**

Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**AN**

Hope no-one's too attached to Drake's mohawk 'do. Just saying ;)

Note: 'poes', pronounced 'puss', is SA slang for...well...I'm sure you can guess.

My continued thanks to the usual peeps, for the usual. Ya'll are fantastic!

I own nothing.

* * *

**CHAPTER 6**

Kruger at the helm, his lupine glare never straying from Talar's, the group bridged the distance in seconds, by which time Talar was sure they could not only taste her fear but hear her heart galloping. It was hammering so furiously she was surprised the stupid organ wasn't smashing through her chest cavity, spraying blood and viscera all over the pristine surfaces. If he would only look away, it wouldn't be so bad; but those eyes, as dark as the floor beneath her, wouldn't budge. And close up, it was even worse.

Nothing could have prepared her for this, for how it felt to be so uncomfortably near to someone who was a living legend at the Bureau and amongst his colleagues for mostly all the wrong reasons. But it was those eyes that truly terrified her. From a distance his irises seemed dark, but face to face up close it became clear that the darkness was in fact extreme pupil dilation, to the extent that not even the barest coronal sliver remained. Whether it was an effect of the medication, or he was amped up about something, it looked frightening. No creature had _no_ irises, except sharks. But sharks' eyes were flat, dead; this man's were vivid and very much alive. Burning.

Instead of seating themselves around Botha, whose chair was third from the right, they pushed the seats aside and stood. Talar couldn't recall ever having locked gazes with anyone for this long, and certainly not with such intensity. She couldn't move, or blink, or think properly, and it was only when he finally diverted his gaze to Botha that she realized she had been holding her breath. But it wasn't any easier to start breathing again - the atmosphere in the room suddenly seemed stifling. Almost imperceptibly, she noticed Botha bristle.

"Nice meeting you, Ma'am," the Cape Colored said, standing up.

"You too, Agent Botha," Talar replied, feeling even more tense on the poor guy's account.

As Botha turned in the direction of the lounge, Kruger piped up: "Hey, Botha! Your tampon's showing, boet. Can you just...adjust your skirt a little, please? There are ladies present!"

He obviously didn't give a damn about making a good first impression.

Hearing his voice at an even closer proximity, for the first time Talar actually wished she were deaf. He sounded nicotine-laced and as uncouth, as dirty as he looked; and he looked like he'd been carried to the club in a dust devil. In fact, all bar Botha and Khumalo did.

Botha gave an audible laugh, starkly different than the ones of Kruger's group, then parried the older man with: "And good morning to you too, Boss."

The group tittered.

"Likewise, Botha. Likewise," came Kruger's rejoinder. "And what a morning it is, boys!"

One flash, one bite, of a glance; and this one, too, stung, almost as if he had thrown sulphuric acid in her face.

Beer in hand, Botha strode to a central right area, where he sat down casually on a couch. Talar had to hand it to him for putting on a good front. Had he not bristled upon the group's arrival, there would have been nothing to betray his discomfort.

Pushing Botha's vacant seat aside, Kruger usurped the space, placing himself barely two feet from his prey. He scanned his group, then said, looking at them: "Come on, guys. The lady knows who we are; but she's been courteous enough to come out and greet us, might as well return the favor, eh?"

The group chuckled; Talar wondered if at her expense. They were already getting away with murder behaving like this around her; laughing in her face wouldn't have been too far a stretch.

Talar, too, swept her gaze skittishly back and forth over the sextet. Although she was looking elsewhere, she could feel those pure onyx eyes on her again; studying her, analyzing her, scrutinizing her. It was a crawling, claustrophobic sensation, even worse than when one of the drill sergeant teachers hovered over her, peering down their noses at the small student girl whose grades weren't allowed to fall below 75% lest they reflect negatively on the mighty Elysian teaching system. Incompetence wasn't permitted in Elysian schools, either from students or teachers. Yet, at that precise moment, she would have gladly substituted the entire Elysian educational authority for this onyx-eyed beast and his buddies.

"Swanepoel," said the imposing blond man on the far right, with surprising affability, offering his hand for Talar to shake.

Deceptive affability, Talar thought, as she immediately accepted. Her reactions must have been functioning on autopilot, because there would have been no conscious way of willing her body to move, let alone manage a semi-confident handshake.

"Khumalo," said the man beside him, with equal amicability. #95, and ex-leader of Pollsmoor prison's faction of the 28s Gang, she recalled. He stood virtually the same height as Swanepoel, with skin the same warm mahogany as that of his 28s Gang friend, Mahlungu – a skin tone darker than that of anyone Talar had ever met - but his build was slighter, his hair closer cropped, and his facial features a little less pronounced. Under any other circumstance she would have considered him attractive.

"Drake," said the third man, a scruffy looking rogue with a crewcut hairstyle and an impish smile, and whose accent, Talar had noted, was closest to Kruger's.

Kruger was next, although he gestured for the Nordic-featured, bald strongman to his right to go on.

Saving the best till last, obviously. Hah. Hah.

The thickset man introduced himself as Crowe, his voice a rumbling baritone, and his grip just that fraction less than crushing. He wasn't tall, but what he lacked in height he certainly boasted in strength.

"Like the rifles," Talar observed, her autopilot brain having assumed control of her voice, too.

"That's my grandson," he affirmed, in an accent smoother than Kruger and Drake's but definitely from the same area.

"Keeping it in the family," Autopilot Talar quipped coolly, Manual Talar only questioning, as an afterthought, whether it was even wise to try and counter these intimidating men with humor. Too late now.

"Hey, hey," Kruger mock warned, wagging a grime-stained finger in her direction, "less of the informality, please. The CCB have a reputation to uphold."

Oh, if only he had seen what she had seen yesterday.

His gaze took on a momentary lightness, and Talar wished she could pause him there indefinitely, in that wonderful safety zone, that place where she didn't get the feeling he was claws out and ready to pounce. She wondered if he was aware of the cameras and was playing up for them, exercising the Bureau's quota of leniency granted to him for being an invaluable asset. She couldn't imagine such blasphemous talk was generally otherwise permitted; even with bureaucracy-hating Yasmin as head of CCTV, she and her team had a duty to report any dissenting chatter.

"They'll survive," replied Autopilot Talar. Manual Talar felt impressed.

Crowe looked only mildly amused, fortunately without any _overt_ hostility, but there was nevertheless a decidedly frosty surface to him. Talar surveyed him for a beat. The inventor of the Droids' Best Friend, as the Cousar Crowe rifles were called, was this man's grandson, which was both startling and oddly impressive. On Elysium, age was somewhat of a moot point. The majority of people chose to suspend their aging in their mid 20's to early 40's, and it wasn't uncommon to have three generations of the same family all within that age bracket. According to Yasmin, the founders had mostly maintained themselves at the age they had been when medbays hit markets for the super wealthy in 2050; fifteen years before first stepping foot on the torus. However, the fact that Kruger and his team were all born in the 1970's yet looked no older than their file photographs meant medbay technology must have been available as far back as 2007. Thus, it wasn't difficult to reconcile a man of Crowe's age with such seniority.

For some reason – because why she cared whether he was friendly or not was irrelevant - his standoffish demeanor nagged at her. Perhaps it was a 'calm before the storm thing' - the fear that he, like Kruger, was biding his time, waiting to pounce? She tried to remember something, anything, from his file to break the ice safely before someone else chose to shatter it beneath her feet.

_*Guys like him love to talk shop. He's a pilot. Let me try that*. _

"So," she addressed him, "you have a good flight?" Trite, and predictable, but better than waiting there to possibly be devoured.

The change in his demeanor was instant; to her overwhelming relief, he grinned, and the grin seemed genuine. Crowe, like his Gen 1 cohorts, was obviously no one to be trifled with, but at least he was human enough to smile with sincerity.

"I hardly have to fly anything manually anymore. All this automation, you know?" He shrugged as if apologizing, though Talar knew he wasn't the kind who apologized for anything. "Even manually, flying is second nature to me so I hardly notice." A pause, enough for Talar's awareness of Kruger's eyes, fixed on her, to re-assert itself. "You, though? You look a little woozy. Rough flight in?"

The innuendo, and the mock-playful tone in his voice, wasn't lost on her. "First time on Earth," she said shortly, realizing just then that she'd responded with one of her own.

"Oh, this just gets better!" Swanepoel murmured.

"Hey," Kruger cut in, "be nice, poes face. I don't wanna have to crack open any more cans of irony on your arse and chase them with shots of sarcasm."

"Look who read his first book yesterday!" Swanpoel chided jokily.

"No boet; your sister's got a grammar kink and she was crying out things to me last night."

Everyone, including Swanepoel, burst out laughing.

"Adjunct! Oh yes, baby! Adverbial clause! Yes, yes! Prepositional phrase! Baby, yes!"

His voice sounded even worse in the throws of mock passion, if that was even possible. Talar reckoned the only pleasing sound Kruger could produce was a mute one.

"Grammar me, baby!" Drake exclaimed.

"It's true, though. You don't just learn something new every day, but you learn it in the weirdest fucking places too. Anyway-" he shot a glance at the man furthest to his right – Mahlungu.

The Xhosa man introduced himself warmly, his expression and handshake completely incongruous with that of a hardened mercenary. But it relieved her; at least she didn't have to coax it out of him.

Finally came the time Talar had been dreading, and, returning her gaze to his, she braced herself for Kruger's introduction. He would have something planned, she was certain of it. Good thing her paralysis had lifted just enough for her to prepare for it, despite her heart picking up a desperate pace again.

Wearing an impeccably guileless expression, he held out his hand. Long, slim fingers, with calloused pads. Tar under the nails. Talar noticed the implants on his wrists, which she had somehow overlooked on his comrades, and accepted the handshake.

She had seen the man's rap sheet, knew he was devious and physically capable, but nothing could have prepared her for what he did next: he used the leverage of the handshake to yank her toward him – and dear God, he was strong, he was as hard and uncompromising as a droid - pull her right up close against him, and rasp in her ear, with no hint of his former joviality: "I've raped better women than you."

For that tiny elapse, it was literally as if time stood still, and she could take note of every intricate detail. The coarse texture of his beard affronting the soft skin of her cheek; the razor kiss of tobacco-saturated breath against her ear and filtering up her nostrils; the scent of dust and dirt and cigarette ash, mingling with fresh sweat, on his clothes; and the taste of bile rising in her own throat. Absurdly, she found herself able to ruminate, albeit only briefly, on how surprising it was that he didn't smell utterly repugnant; although, being a smoker herself, she had to admit more than a little bias.

Only then, as her subconscious mind finished processing his words and her conscious mind took over, did the reality of what he had just uttered hit her smack bang in the face... with all the subtlety of an iron baseball bat.

He had raped people. Not only had he raped people, but he had enjoyed it, and he was proud of it. And the reality of hearing this first hand was infinitely more jarring than any dry text in a file.

He relinquished his grip, iris-less eyes tracking her with a cool keenness as she pulled back, shaken and rendered momentarily ineffectual. As he locked her in with that merciless gaze, somehow, by way of what could only be a miracle, she found her brain working. Not just working, but pedaling, wheeling furiously, wondering whether to say nothing or attempt a withering retort. Yes, he was goading her, and yes, he was trying to intimidate her, but was he expecting a rise out of her? Her sensibility ordered her to just leave it, to not give this inhuman bastard the satisfaction. Yet, her ire, her profound shock, screamed otherwise. And she had to do it quickly, because getting in a competent retort was very much a time limited matter.

She grabbed her courage with both hands, forced all her shock and trepidation down, down as far as it could go, and with a composure she didn't know she possessed, retorted coolly: "Well, needs must, eh? I don't see them flocking to you otherwise."

"Woah-ho-hooo!" exclaimed Crowe, the other members joining in with whoops and cheers.

She anticipated the backlash from her opponent, but, bizarrely, all Kruger did was take a moment to consider her response, then snicker and parry her: "That's not what your mother said."

"Oh, really?" she clipped back immediately, baffled as to how she was managing it. "It's the 22nd century and you're still resorting to 'your mama' jokes?"

"Not resorting," he said matter-of-factly. "Just the most appropriate response in the given situation."

Contrary to her presumptions, he remained entirely unperturbed by her comeback. Where she had expected fury and wrath, at the gall of a mere female daring to challenge him, she was met with only a vague sense of amusement. She hadn't even grazed his ego, let alone dented it.

All that effort, for nothing. Well, at least she had survived.

"Well, it's very nice to make your acquaintance, Agent Kruger," she deadpanned, offering a practiced, perfunctory CCB smile. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was still reeling from his declaration; or at the very least, of seeing it overtly. Most likely a man like him would be fully cognizant of human psychology, of how blindsiding someone in such a way left a lasting effect. Most likely smell it on her, too. Therefore, the best she could do was maintain a staged recovery, and then maybe, just maybe, he might get the idea that she wasn't going to let him snap her backbone. She might even succeed in convincing herself, too.

*_Hah. Good luck, my friend!_*.

The group continued sniggering, like a group of chattering hyenas.

"My pleasure, Ma'am," he responded in a darkly cordial manner.

Then, the most bizarre thing happened. Where it came from she couldn't fathom – perhaps being in the presence of so much testosterone was affecting her hormones, as was being the target of this wolfish, clearly very sexual man's attention - but suddenly, she felt another feeling begin to stir. Before she knew it, she was realizing, with abject horror, just what the feeling was: fear – of course fear – but mixed with a throbbing, primal _desire_. Sheer animal attraction, terrible and wrong, but simply too pungent to ignore, deny or fight. For a split second's entirety it was all she could do not to leap over the counter and claw his fatigues off, filthy and sweaty or not.

Nicotine – that was it. It was because he reeked of tobacco. Yes, that _had_ to be it. She had gone four hours without a cigarette, and this human nicotine factory had sparked up her addiction, pure and simple. If she wanted to kiss him, lick him, breathe him in, it was to taste and inhale the residual scent of tobacco that her tastebuds and olfactory receptors were craving. And if she wanted to fuck him... or rather, for him to fuck her? Haul her up against a wall or bend her over a table and brutally have his way with her, in front of everyone, like the animal that he was?

Yeah, that was nicotine addiction, too. Right. Why then was there a sudden rush of sticky warmth between her legs?

Fortunately she snapped out of it pretty much immediately, but was left even more shaken than moments before. Now she could add disgust to the heady mixture of emotions coursing throughout her body; disgust and revulsion with herself. Unlike Botha, there was nothing even remotely attractive about this man; and even if there had been, it would have been merely physical, and nothing the sheer depravity of his behavior wouldn't mitigate. Hell, that nails-on-a-chalkboard voice was bad enough on its own. But ultimately, he was a devil, a demon, a God damn rapist... and she had wanted- She couldn't even allow herself to process it. Either it was the nicotine addiction and the abundant presence of testosterone, both of which functioned at that reptilian-brain level where decency and morality had no relevance, or it was a fluke.

She realized she had been staring at his eyes when he said with a smirk: "Mydriasis."

"Hmm?" she replied, a little dazed. Shit, shit, shit, he was winning and he knew it.

He pointed to his right eye. "Blown pupils. Haven't seen my real eye color for decades. It's the meds. And no, it doesn't affect my vision. They make some stellar contact lenses nowadays."

She got the impression the "nowadays" was significant. He was far, far older than she may ever be; he'd traveled the world and experienced things she couldn't even imagine. Yet here she was, a 28 year old with comparatively no life experience, above him in the bureaucratic pecking order. He wouldn't let her forget that.

"That's nice," she said, lacing her tone and expression with as much casual disinterest as she could muster. She refused to let him know he had riled her.

He tutted, shaking his head. "_That's nice_. Listen to that, boys. I share a private matter with this lady and all she can say is "that's nice."."

"I'd call it trying to draw attention to yourself."

"No baby, I'm just being friendly, indulging your curiosity. I don't _try_ to draw attention to myself."

The trace of a knowing smile tugged at the corners of his thin lips, his eyes sparkling with a dark glee. The bastard knew he had her. He'd felt her terror and then he'd fucking well felt her desire, too. She wished she could deny it, but knew in her heart that it was impossible.

"Well, thank you for being friendly on my account, Agent Kruger."

The hyena pack were still cackling and exchanging quips, but Talar had zoned them out. They didn;t constitute any immediate threat to her, unlike Kruger; in whose case she was suddenly stumped for how else to respond. He was the smartass type, the person who always spoke back and had an answer for everything. Every possible rejoinder she could fathom would only be met with a better rebuttal of his own. For the time being, she would have to admit defeat. Luckily, she had a legitimate excuse.

"Now, I'm sorry to have to cut this short, but we've done the meet and greet, so I should get back to work."

His expression changed to one of complete neutrality, as if none of the events within the last few minutes had just occurred. "Of course, Ma'am."

She acknowledged the rest of the group, whose clamor was quelling, with a curt nod, and then turned to leave, deliberately not gratifying Kruger's ego with a second glance.

The men's conversation started back up the moment her back was turned, but she deliberately tried not to follow it. From the corridor she could still hear them, their raucous banter filtering through the walls like some sort of selective, heat-seeking chemical gas. Agent Kruger was conducting a cacophony of an orchestra out there, and Talar bet damn well half of it was purely to piss her off.

The photo that greeted her when she arrived back in her office was a dazzling evening shot, looking from the ground up at the tapered, resplendent golden spire of Myanmar's Shwedagon Pagoda in Rangoon.

As Henry vacated the space, Talar retrieved her lighter and packet of cigarettes, swiftly lighting one up. Oh, the luxury of being able to smoke inside, of not having to trek what felt like miles in exquisitely sculpted but woefully impractical shoes. Even the lowly admin employees had to show drive and dedication; any luxuries such as cigarette or caffeine breaks were tainted with time limits hanging heavy above your head. If you couldn't smoke your cigarette or down your rocket fuel in record time, you would have to sprint back to the office. Despite being short, Talar was never one for stiletto heels if she could help it. If it weren't for the Bureau's stipulation that she wear them, she would have gladly gone around in ballet flats. Would Yasmin be forced to report her if she kicked off her nude, Jimmy Choo Anouk pumps? She decided against it for now.

God, that rush of tobacco and nicotine felt so good. It _tasted_ so good.

An image of Kruger's harsh features, his leering expression, flashed into her mind.

She cursed audibly, yanking the cigarette from her lips and promptly stubbing it out in the transparent ash tray at the side of the desk. She needed the hit, but not that man in her head. He'd done enough damage already. Maybe this was her cue to quit?

*_Smoke me!_* the rest of the cigarettes cried telepathically, like a pestering child. *_Smoke me! Come on! You'll get cranky if you don't!_*

Talar actually caught herself glaring at the offending packet, whilst wrangling with her thoughts, conflicted. Finally, her addiction won out. After all, she didn't want to those pangs of craving to disrupt her work. Kruger was already here, so any other unpleasantries that could be prevented were worth her while taking measures against. She re-lit the barely touched cigarette, inhaling and exhaling deeply, feeling and tasting the smoke as it filtered down her throat and out through her nostrils. It smelt like him.

"Fuck you, Agent Kruger," she said defiantly. "You don't own my life."

* * *

**AN 2**

Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**AN**

Whilst this doesn't bare any direct significance to the plot, I just wanted to explain something that may have had people wondering. You may have noticed how, according to the alerts, agents are referred to by their first and second given initials and then their surname. Maybe you were thinking, what if they had no middle name, or conversely, had several? Indeed, middle names do not exist in certain countries; although the agents featured thus far all originate from cultures where they do, and, especially in the case of black Africans, where more than one middle name is fairly common. In this instance, their names would be subject to shortening by general computer databases, the vast majority of which only allow for one middle name. Hope that clears this up.

A shorter chapter this time. I was planning on making it longer but decided it would have more impact ending it here.

Continued thanks to the usual peeps, for the usual stuff. Love you gals!

Own nothing, yada yada yada.

* * *

**CHAPTER 7**

Come 15:07, Kruger's team, including Botha, had left; as had the others, to be replaced by ten more from intelligence. Save for making two cups of coffee, Talar had worked solidly since finishing that blessedly pacifying cigarette - however reminiscent of Kruger it was, ultimately it helped calm her nerves. She could have had Henry make the coffee, as he was programmed for kitchen duties too, but she enjoyed the trips to the kitchen, with its milky-colored, glassy surfaces and panelled, underlit floor. It hadn't occurred to her just how badly her bladder was protesting, or how her stomach was grumbling, until an alert flashed up, notifying her of Agent O. L. Ramanauskas' arrival. She would tend to her bladder, placate her stomach with an apple for the time being, then go and greet the Lithuanian whiz kid before taking her proper lunch break.

Five minutes later she was standing behind the bar, and in walked a diminutive, pallid young man, in what was arguably the worst ensemble of clashing patterns known to man: a plaid blazer, Hawaiian shirt with polka dot tie, and horizontally-striped drainpipe trousers. Either he had gotten dressed in the dark or he was trying to make a fashion statement. This – this – was the person who had brought down the security system of the New World Government? A look of surprise at her presence barely had time to register, before the trio of agents in the left hand corner gave a boisterous cheer, rising to accost the kid mid step. He seemed pleased to see them, although, in their case, it was unclear whether their amusement was with him or at his expense and he – and she, too - simply wasn't picking up on the nuance. After patting him heartily on the back, they returned to their seats, letting him complete the distance to the bar. His steps seemed tentative, almost as if he was unsteady on his feet.

"Agent Ramanauskus," Talar said with a smile, holding out her hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Yours too, Ms. Sampson, Ma'am," replied the teenager, deferentially, in a strong eastern European accent; one that Talar in her relative ignorance would have been hard pressed to distinguish from any other from that part of the world. He accepted the handshake limply, eyes improperly focused on her. He seemed shy, if not socially awkward; a more extreme version of Talar herself. She took a moment to deliberate whether making light of his attire would be appropriate, or if he would even get it. She gave him the benefit of the doubt, praying she wouldn't regret it.

"Interesting outfit," she remarked, smiling warmly and praying he wouldn't take offense. It struck her that she was behaving with far less circumspection than usual today, as if the parts of her composure had gotten dislodged and couldn't quite fit back together. She shoved the thought to the back of her mind.

To her relief, the kid chuckled, his awkwardness loosening notably. "I lost a game with those agents who greeted me. The forfeit was to wear this for the entire day. I'm going to mainline vodka to console myself." Although he still appeared a little awkward – his posture seemed oddly rigid, like a spooked cat, and he still wasn't properly looking her in the eye - he was obviously aware enough to gage when formality could be partially dropped.

She stopped at advising him not to get into any other games with the aforementioned agents, or even drinking at all – his file put his age at 19 - saying instead: "Only vodka?"

"Reminds me of home." His face took on a humorous expression as he continued: "Only alcohol we drink in Lithuania, in addition to beer. If it's not made from grains or potatoes, we don't go near it. It's like poison."

"Well, good thing we've only got about-" Talar turned around, throwing a cursory glance at the crammed rows, of which half were spirits, "-I guess at least... ten different types of vodka here."

"You have fifteen," he corrected her, wryly. "More than my life's worth to forget it."

Talar nodded. "You work in intelligence, after all."

The teenager laughed. "Oh no. I meant it as an eastern European. Anyone from eastern Europe, we have to know our vodka, otherwise we are not worthy. It's a national sport for us."

Talar couldn't decipher whether he was being serious or not. She wasn't particularly clued up on worldly drinking cultures. Other than the devoutly religious and the fastidiously health obsessed, everyone enjoyed a drink, didn't they?

Ramanauskas addressed the droid, ordering a shot of Stumbro Starka – a honey-colored liquid which Talar had mistook for whisky – another of Chopin vodka, an Ozone vodka and lime, and a Luksusowa vodka and Coca Cola. Money never needed to exchange hands here, Chisholm had told her, the droids logging the transactions and submitting them via their internal comms to the finance department of HQ, who then debited them from the agents' accounts.

"All the cheap stuff," he said drolly.

"Depends what you call cheap."

"Under $100. When I first started coming here, when they first contracted me, they only had super premium vodkas. Exorbitantly priced stuff – upwards of $1000. But then I noticed, they have this cheap lager – Castle lager – that the South Africans love-"

Internally, Talar winced, the memory of Kruger's coarse beard brushing against her cheek, and that cold, grating voice rasping in her ear, as he clinched her with what was probably no more than a mere iota of his true strength. She swallowed, tasting tobacco, and for a fleeting moment she could have sworn the air reeked of it, too.

*_Think of Botha,_* she commanded herself. *_Think of Botha. Think of Botha. Must think of Botha._*

"-so I suggested they stock some of my favorites, too. And they've had them ever since."

"This place is excellently stocked, but I wasn't aware they took suggestions."

"After my first visit they sent me a form asking for my feedback."

"Ah, I see." Talar cracked a smile. Any excuse for the Bureau to bring forms into the equation. Any. Sometimes it even benefited people.

Ramanauskas smiled back, making adequate eye contact with her for the first time.

"Well, enjoy your visit, Agent Ramanauskas-"

"Call me Osvaldas," the kid interjected enthusiastically.

Talar was taken aback by his sudden boldness, but told herself not to get hung up on it. The guy was hardly a chick magnet – that was, to women who didn't want to mother him, or didn't harbor some perverse kink for gawky teenage boys. Add to this that most of his dealings with CCB staffers were no doubt stiflingly formal, and he was probably just eager to make the best out of any interaction with a female superior who seemed human. However, being socially maladjusted, he had likely found himself lost for words and so just blurted out, out of turn, the first thing that came to mind. Knowing that feeling only too well, Talar could sympathize with him - understanding and navigating the complex world of social norms and protocols had never come easy to her, either.

"OK, Osvaldas," she replied cordially. "I would say "call me Talar", but as your superior I'm not allowed to have you address _me_ on a first name basis."

"Understood, Ma'am," the teenager said.

"But you can dispense with the 'Ma'am', OK?"

He gave an animated, single nod.

"Well, nice to have met you, Osvaldas-" she watched the agent's childlike face light up, "-but I must get back to work. Enjoy your day."

"You too!" he called after her.

* * *

Coconut and spiced vanilla, everywhere. Smooth, sweet, and intoxicating.

Talar was a shower person. She rarely found the time to take baths; but when she did, they were the type that involved copious amounts of bubbles, exotic scents, and which normally ended in masturbation. She had lost her masturbatory virginity in the bath, and it had stuck with her ever since. This one was no different, except that the tub was a jacuzzi big enough for two people instead of four, and the bubbles were constantly shifting. Fortunately, being an air jet tub rather than a water jet one, it permitted the use of scented oils and bubble bath; the distinction of which she had come to be hyper vigilant of since ruining her parents' hot tub once.

With thoughts of Agent A. T. Botha occupying her mind, her hands moved steadily, three fingers rubbing circles over her swollen little nub, whilst the other worked two fingers in and out of her well lubricated pussy. It had been a long day, with fewer cigarettes than usual, and she needed some relief. Having not had sex in four months since splitting from Sudir, she needed a proper shag, too, and Goddamn if Botha hadn't sent her into heat. But he wasn't here; just mental projections of him, wishes that she couldn't even dream of taking the first steps to fulfil yet.

Round and round one hand went; the other, dipping so sweetly, lingeringly, in and out. Her body hummed inside, slowly coiling, tightening. Her nipples stood erect, despite the warm water, her small breasts becoming ever so slightly more pronounced with arousal from her earlier attention given to them. Oh, that sensation in her clit, and inside her, felt so good. For the little that it was, it felt damn amazing. Fuck...Botha. Missing teeth or not, he was just so impeccably stunning. That slim, streamlined build... that smile... those surreal, turquoise eyes... that gentle laugh... that smooth, unblemished skin the color of warm caramel. And that quiet, understated confidence, too. He may have seemed humble on the outside, but she would bet good money he'd be a completely different animal behind closed doors.

Yasmin would wax lyrical to her about the wonders of sex toys, and owned a vast array of them, but Talar was far more reserved in her use of such contraptions. Whilst they had their benefits - unlike real sex they guaranteed an orgasm, or even several - she had never managed to completely adjust to the feel of being pleasured by something so obviously mechanical. An orgasm was an orgasm, Yasmin said, whether by a man's body part or otherwise; but Talar disagreed. She wanted something that felt like the real thing, like a man fucking her or licking her, fingering her or touching her, or nothing. Yet, devices that replicated the exact feel and function of penises, tongues, lips and fingers mostly only disturbed her for resembling severed body parts or isolated specimens grown in a lab. She was used to all manner of robots performing menial and vital tasks, but ones with such an intimate function seemed somehow a step too far, for her at least.

Thus, she owned no sex toys. Perhaps she was missing out, she wondered, or perhaps not. The most obvious con was the inability to bring herself to vaginal - that was, g-spot - orgasm; something she had managed to achieve through sex, and via her last boyfriend's skilled finger work, but that she found impossible to reproduce using her own fingers. Two years ago Yasmin had gifted her a g-spot vibrator, hoping to win her friend over to the dark side; Talar had used it only once, the thought of its impersonal, synthetic flesh over plastic too off-putting. Perhaps she was an anachronism who would have been better off in the 1950's, before mechanical self love had come into vogue and never gone out of it.

The pleasure intensified as she switched to massaging her clit with one finger; long, agonizingly slow vertical strokes up and down, right to the perimeter of her pelvis and then down to the upper partition of her vulva. The heat inside her, too, ratcheted up a notch as the spring wound itself tighter. Even without the bath water, she would have been soaked. A natural blush spread across her cheeks. The pitter-patter of her heart was steadily becoming a heavier, more brazen thudding.

She had pictured herself undressing Botha; drinking in his lean, runner's build, impressively adorned with skele-steel exografts; running the flat of her palms over his washboard stomach, and letting her fingers trace and probe those captivating implants as he worked on undressing her. She had envisioned the two of them naked on her bed; his lush, full lips massaging hers, their tongues stroking one another's as her fingers trailed delicately up and down his cock until he reached a thick, full erection. She had imagined his slender, piano-player's fingers probing inside her, stimulating her internal sweet spot. And now she was up to imagining herself rubbing her thumb over the head of his dick, back and forth, then circling the rim, teasing him, making him moan with her as his fingers continued to stoke a burgeoning fire within her. She encircled the tip of his cock with her full palm, then gave a moderate squeeze, excruciatingly slowly moving her hand upwards until it had left the organ completely. He gasped.

Oh, how she wished it was his caramel-colored fingers on her throbbing clit right now, dipping inside of her with beautiful, rhythmic precision, his kisses on her neck and shoulders, instead of those of the air bubbles.

She envisioned herself wrapping her hand around his delicious erection, completely enveloping the head, and then increasing and decreasing the pressure in a series of rhythmic contractions, like an undulating current. In her mind's eye, she saw his eyelids flutter closed, heard his honeyed moan. She was going to show this man utter bliss.

Until meeting Sudir last year, Talar had never considered herself particularly skilled at anything sexual; no-one bar him had inspired that fervent, rousing need to try anything beyond the average, and it wasn't something she'd sought to change. Why, she didn't exactly know. Although far from prudish, she could never seem to muster the enthusiasm to become the sex kitten that men fantasized about. Perhaps it was a reaction to the lacklustre skill of those previous boyfriends, the fact that they themselves seemed to care so little for the intricacies of female desire? Or maybe she had simply been a late bloomer in that respect?

But Sudir, that beautiful Hindu architect, had taught her a trick or two. He had been the one to open up an entirely new world to her, to teach her things she could never have imagined, and to inspire her to take the initiative and learn, try, explore. He had taught her to embrace herself. Too bad, she thought with more than a modicum of unfair, guilty selfishness, she had been the one to finally convince him to embrace _him_self. She and Sudir remained good friends, although Talar was perpetually green with envy in the presence of his boyfriend. At least he'd left her with a very useful legacy.

Up another notch now, steadily climbing. She felt her vaginal muscles tense and flex in accord with her ministrations. Her calves, too, gave an involuntary clench; and then her toes, scrunching themselves up to an almost painfully tight point. The porcelain feel of the squeaky-clean acrylic itself seemed heavenly, reminding her of that first time, fifteen years prior, when she had found herself arching and writhing against the hard material as a strange and beautiful sensation had overwhelmed her.

The whole of her right hand was now slipping and sliding against her clit, right from the tips of her fingers to the heel of her palm, and her left now moved faster, jerkier, losing precision as the feeling continued to soar.

Her climax imminent, she knew she wouldn't have time to imagine doing everything she wanted to Botha. So, she went for the kill; her hand, slicked up with a mixture of her own saliva or juices and his pre-cum, now a dexterous cadence up and down that column of lusciously hard flesh, polishing him towards ejaculation... whilst her other hand delicately fondled his balls, feeling their tightness, their contracted state as his body prepared itself to crest.

Yes, yes, yes.. closer, closer still... fuck...

The Cape Colored drew closer to her, pressing his lips against the shell of her ear and then whispering-

"I've raped women better than you."

It wasn't Botha's voice. Neither was it is his form, or his scent. Tobacco and dust were everywhere, and it was heavy and thick and cloying and altogether terrifying and-

*_Holy fuck- no... no..._*

But she couldn't stop - the avalanche had already begun and now she was climaxing, a lava hot spike of ecstasy rising sharply in her core and racing with lightning speed outward, making her extremities its exit wounds. She gasped, a chilling, strangulated sound as her body jolted painfully against the menace of a man who held her captive. And was he climaxing, too? She didn't know. Didn't want to know.

The sensation subsided sharply, and she sank back against the tub, breathless and rattled.

She had just orgasmed to Agent C. M. Kruger.

The unbelievable bastard. Just how, in the name of all that was unholy, had he done it? How had he crept into her head and blindsided her like that? It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. It was sheer lunacy.

She lay there, thoroughly disgusted with him, and even more so with herself. She couldn't tell anyone about this, not even Yasmin; and next time Kruger and his cronies visited her workplace, she certainly wouldn't go out to greet them, Botha or not. Because Kruger would know. He would sense something, she was sure of it. Even if her guilt and shame didn't flare up perceptibly in his wake, he would no doubt have some uncanny way of reading her.

Her voice of reason woke up: she had to get it together, it said. Sit up, take a deep breath, and approach this little incident calmly and rationally. Kruger being in her head was nothing more than the result of a stressful encounter; it did not necessarily reflect any true desire for the man. That transient surge of lust she had experienced, together with what had just happened, was simply her body's most primitive survival instinct kicking in – a much more twisted, but ultimately necessary, form of Stockholm Syndrome. The body and mind wanted to protect itself from pain and trauma; and so, when faced with someone who posed a very genuine threat, in some or many extreme cases it turned that fear and panic to lust and want. It was its own way of making friends with the monster under the bed.

But then... would that same monster be sleeping under her bed tonight now? Would he get comfy there?

*_Leave it alone,_* her reason urged; and it was right. For the sake of her sanity, she couldn't allow herself to dwell any more on this. It was utterly pointless picking at a solved mystery, a closed case. Besides, wouldn't that be what Kruger wanted – to have his toxic 'seed' take root in her head and grow into something ruinous? She had to prove to herself that she was better than him, stronger than what he'd given her credit for; but ultimately, she had to not let herself get drawn into his sordid little game.

She closed her eyes, listening to the gentle, lilting permutations of the water surrounding her, and once again inhaling coconut and spiced vanilla.

*_Deep breath, that's it._*

Nevertheless, she would be sleeping with light on.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN**

Thanks to the usual suspects for the usual stuff :) Ya'll are fantastic!

Please allow 1-3 weeks for the next update.

* * *

**CHAPTER 8**

"Wow," said Yasmin in her latest email exchange with her Earth-stationed friend, after viewing the photos Talar had attached of her new home, "you really are alone out there, aren't you! Any spider emergencies yet?"

0130 hours. Having woken an hour earlier and been unable to get back to sleep, Talar had gone outside to see if the fresh air helped to soothe her. Now, standing twenty feet from the front door of her abode, beneath the canopy of indigo night sky and glimmering stars, she couldn't have felt more isolated. Literally nothing else, no inorganic light or man-made beacon, shone out here; even the torus, radiant in the midst of that darkness, seemed closer. If not for the CCTV system and the droids, she could die out here and not be discovered for years. But just the very fact of being this remote, safe or not, was an immense and intimidating one, thrilling and frightening simultaneously; and entirely humbling, too. Just one tiny and insignificant mortal, dependent on technology and artificiality, in the middle of a gigantic and timeless, self-sustaining organic terrain. Yet, while she knew she might change her mind later, right now it was precisely where she wanted to be.

The air carried a surprising chill, and she'd needed to don a sweater and a jacket in order to withstand it; poor cosseted fool that she was, accustomed only to the balmy weather of those permanently clear Elysian skies. In his brief scientific rundown, Lang had explained how it was a lack of moisture that caused temperature extremes in the desert – absence of water vapor to absorb and reflect solar heat during the day and prevent thermal radiation to space during the night. Seasons, weather fluctuations and radical temperature changes, however, didn't really exist on the habitat - everything there was manipulated to the most meticulous extreme, tweaked to utmost perfection. To experience them there, people visited simulation parks and specially constructed 'season centers', or in-habitat holiday resorts. Plants and edible items that flourished in colder Earth climates were engineered and grown in labs replicating those conditions, of which the decorative ended up in the botanical gardens. And, in the absence of rainfall, everywhere boasted a sprinkler system or several.

Animals, too, were mainly confined to the habitat's single, sprawling zoo; save domesticated animals, there was no actual wildlife that Talar had read about in Fauna Studies - no urban foxes, no rats or mice or hedgehogs, no raccoons, rabbits, or birds... although the dreaded spiders abounded, alongside the odd cockroach. A space station fill of multi billionaires, and they still couldn't rid their world of the nastiest of small critters.

One of the strangest phenomena Talar had observed here was the conspicuous dearth of scent and sound at night; things which the torus possessed plentifully. On Elysium, you were never far from the smell of fresh cut grass, designer fragrances, incense, or exotic meals. You could experience Earth smells such as cordite, petrol, petrichor and ozone at the simulation parks. And there was always something happening within earshot or carried on the temperate breeze – music playing, people talking, dogs barking, or the unobtrusive whir of an aircar up above. But in the middle of the Clark County desert at night, there was absolutely nothing - not even the scent of dust, the faint scurrying of a rodent, faraway howl of a coyote, or shriek of the hawks Lang had told her were ubiquitous around the mountains. Sound-wise she hadn't noticed anything that morning, either, in that tiny oasis of a garden; and scent wise, she hadn't had time to go out and roll around in the artificial morning dew, as she used to love to do as a child.

*_You were saying, about the lack of sound?_*

She heard it from behind her - a faint, pulsating, mechanical type of sound, somewhere high in the sky. It didn't sound like the aeroplanes, helicopters, fighter jets or stealth bombers she had heard in movies, and it was too loud for an aircar or Fulgar shuttle even at close range. She whipped round just in time to see it zoom overhead, a good several thousand feet up, streaking red, green and white light.

A Raptor, or a Raven.

A wave of paranoia hit her at the thought of who might have been on board, Lang having made her aware of which type of agent travelled in what. Luckily, her more composed side countered the thought, reasoning that Kruger's team weren't the only ones to fly in military craft; and that, even if the craft in question did happen to be Kruger's, it was unlikely if not impossible that he would know where Talar lived... save having Ramanauskas hack into the CCB mainframe, or knowing someone willing to sell him classified information, of course. But neither of those seemed likely - whilst Kruger certainly intended to make her life difficult, his job was too important for him to risk jeopardizing over some female in authority. Besides, Botha lived in Las Vegas; the team were probably returning from their mission to drop him off, as whatever vehicle he had arrived at the club in had vanished when she had left that evening, probably sent home by remote control. Then of course, there was the possibility that they were headed to Vegas to party.

Lucky for some.

Talar took one final look at her former home, floating amongst its glittering stellar companions, before returning to her present one. The light in her bedroom remained on; she still wasn't going to switch it off tonight.

* * *

11:25.

That night's sleep had proved to be fitful at best, and Talar was suffering for it now, having to down twice her normal amount of sugar-avec-coffee to maintain the same level of alertness and thus dealing with the consequences of caffeine being a diuretic. But what was really bugging her wasn't the additional need for fuel, or the more frequent trips to appease her bladder; it was the niggling little thought that had obviously wormed its way into her head during what little sleep she'd managed to get, one that she had thought her rationality had already put to rest: the possibility the Kruger knew where she lived. What was worse, she knew the only way to clear it up would be to ask him outright and hope against hope that he would answer truthfully. Having to come face to face with that onyx-eyed deviant was bad enough without putting him in a position to toy with her. And, having rationalized away her sudden bursts of attraction to him, and the accompanying guilt, wouldn't prevent him from uncannily sniffing them out. The only possible way she could try to mitigate it was either to force herself into denial, or the polar opposite - accept it and tell him "so what?". She chose the latter. If she laid herself bare, presenting herself as having nothing to lose, then there would be nothing he could take away from her. At least theoretically...

*_Good luck with _that_ theory holding up to scrutiny,_* mocked a dissenting little voice in her head. She promptly told it where to shove itself, trying to concentrate on the task in hand – actual work – and Botha. As fate would have it, she had already received a directive for him that morning - a hacker bust in a São Paolo favela. Botha, and the same team from yesterday... which meant that she would be seeing them all again, questions to answer or not. At least Botha's inclusion in the mission legitimized her reason for leaving the sanctity of her office two days in a row. The more opportunities she had to make it quite clear to Kruger that it wasn't all about him, the better.

Barely fifteen minutes later, the screen signalled Botha's arrival; and, just as Talar was exiting her office, her wrist comm announced the first of the rest of the group, the others following in close succession. Kill joys. Well, if she only had five minutes 'alone' with the object of her affection, she would make damn sure they were good ones.

Fatigues-clad Botha strode in literally the moment she entered the bar. Surrounded by the beauty of an amber sunset above Australia's Ayers Rock, he approached her with a broad, genuine smile; a smile that reached his eyes. Talar acknowledged him with a more coquettish smile of her own, praying it wouldn't be lost on him. If she turned out to be mistaken and he really wasn't interested, she was now hell bent on changing his mind.

"Morning," he said impishly, still denture-less.

"How was Liberia?" she asked.

"Good, good," he replied casually. As an asset, he wasn't allowed to offer more than the vaguest of details. The most he could do was to respond to Talar's questions. But even she, as his superior, could only ask so much.

"You travelled here with the rest of the team?"

He shook his head. "But I heard them arrive just as I was signing in." He shrugged, then continued: "Maybe they're stalking me?"

"You too, eh?" Talar replied, inclining an eyebrow.

"Hmm?"

"A Raven – the craft, not the bird – flew over my house last night. I was outside at about one thirty and saw it. I'm not sure if it was your team's, but.."

"You live in Nevada?"

"I do."

"Then that was us. But as far as I know, none of the guys have any idea where you live, so don't worry."

"I wasn't."

"Hey, there's no shame in it. You're only human, you know? I saw Kruger giving you a bit of a hard time yesterday. I know that guy – he can be intimidating even at the best of times, even more so if it's your first day. I'm surprised you're not a quivering wreck, frankly."

She cracked a mildly ironic laugh. "You seem to handle him well."

Another shrug. "I'm used to it."

He flashed her that brief but pertinent look again – the one that urged her to leave before it was too late. And she could leave now, couldn't she? He'd as good as answered her question.

Yes, he had, but it wasn't enough to silence the niggling little voice. To put the doubt completely to rest she had to hear it from Kruger himself; assuming he answered honestly.

*_Or is it just that you actually want to see Kruger?_*

*_That's absolute fucking nonsense and you know it._*

*_Is it though? Is it really?_*

*_Of course it is._*

*_OK then._*

*_Oh get lost._*

*_Whatever you say, Ma'am!_*

The dissenting voice, it seemed, had decided to stick around; and although she could get it to shut up, the fact that she couldn't find a way to realistically counter it was beginning to worry her.

"I've got a question to a-" she began to explain, but was cut off by the nearby chirpy 'brrr brrr' of a phone - Botha's. Just a simple, standard ringtone, unlike the all-singing-all-dancing creations mostly everyone else, and Talar herself, had. Talar wasn't exactly sure why, but the difference pleased her. Maybe it spoke of practicality, of someone who didn't care for frippery and finery and ostentation, just like...

...that stunning 'new modern' property, with its razor-clean edges and mercilessly precise infinity pool, and its strikingly tasteful cube pavilion. Of all people's houses, it had to be Kruger's, didn't it? Murphy's fucking Law.

Botha fished a device from the pocket of his fatigues, excused himself, then wandered off toward the toilets where it was quieter.

*_Please don't be long,_* she tried to impart telepathically to him. If only for the barest smidgen of moral support, she wanted him there when the troupe arrived. Just so they knew she had an ally. All of a sudden, she felt horribly dependent. This was getting ever more ridiculous.

A minute passed, with the scenic photos doing nothing to relax her. She was a house on the edge of a deteriorating cliff, above a tempestuous sea full of jagged rocks, and each second felt like another few inches of land crumbling away, just ticking down to the time she, too, would hurtle to her doom.

Why was she so God damn anxious? Hadn't she settled everything in her head? What, realistically, was there left to fear now?

The entry door swished open.

"Yeah," said that abrasive, smoker's voice, preceding its owner, "it's so fucking hot already that earlier on I went out in literally just a t-shirt-" And in he stepped. "In fact, no, I didn't. I had to preserve my modesty, so I wore sandals, too."

Cackles from the group, filing in immediately after.

"Oh hey!" the bearded man exclaimed joyously. "Look who's come out to play again!"

*_You thought about him last night!_* L'il Miss Schadenfreude reminded her. *_When you were uh-uh uh-uh! Oh yes you di-id!_* And now Talar was beginning to wonder if she was in fact possessed. Maybe she just wasn't accustomed to the water here?

That was what she had left to fear: her very own, personalized demon - a wonderful fiend to match the flesh and blood one approaching her now.

He didn't stride so much as sprint over to the bar, looking sickeningly chipper.

She just about managed to swallow her raging apprehension before he bridged the gap, although she wondered if she wouldn't vomit it right back up soon enough.

"Good morning, Agent Kruger," she managed, in the blandest, most official tone she could muster.

He looked much cleaner than yesterday - well, not clean_er_; just clean. The thought crossed her mind that he may have spruced himself up for her benefit, although she dismissed it. Someone like him didn't go out of his way for anyone's benefit if he could help it. A glance at his comrades confirmed this - they were cleaner, too. There had obviously been some sort of communal Boys' Wash And Scrub Up event last night.

To her chagrin, he stank no less of tobacco, though.

*_Fuck it,_* she thought. She had done so well avoiding cigarettes today, and in he comes reeking of them.

Her opponent offered her no such pleasantry, but replied instead: "What are you doing out here again, fraternizing with us lot? Didn't anyone tell you there are strict regulations that place being bureaucratic above anyone's self interest? Here, fill out this form before we continue our conversation, just because we haven't wasted enough time filling out entirely redundant forms already. Does no-one think of the trees, for crying out loud?!"

If Talar hadn't been so affronted by his very existence, she might have considered him funny. And he had a point, for once.

"They're not Earth trees, Agent Kruger."

"And thank fuck for that!" His breath came out like a current of acrid, invisible smoke, as if he literally ate, drank and breathed tobacco. Her craving for a long overdue cigarette intensified.

"And contrary to what you believe, I'm not here out of my own self interest."

He pulled a crestfallen face.

"Unfortunately," she went on, "I've got a question to ask you."

"What's that then?"

His harsh accent rendered it as "worsat din?". Dear God, the man was a walking technological wonder, adorned with skele steel implants, a neural chip, with access to the most advanced technology in the known universe, yet he hadn't been fitted with a mute button and subtitles? And was it too much to ask for him to just look away for a moment either? Although his gaze didn't simultaneously scorch and chill with the same savage intensity as it had yesterday, there was nevertheless something distinctly disconcerting about it. Today it was a slow burn, a more leisurely but no less diligent approach, rather than an outright attack.

And then, to her dismay and outright horror, she felt it again – that terrifying feeling, creeping up on her with its silent but lethal needles for claws, its daggers for teeth. She could try to run and hide from it, but it was going to get her eventually.

*_You know why you _really_ don't like his voice?_* L'il Miss Schadenfreude piped up.

*_Why?_*

*_Because you don't dislike it at all._*

*_What's that supposed to mean?_*

*_Come on, Tal. You're not stupid._*

*_I'd rather be, in this instance._*

Loath as Talar was to admit it, the dissenting voice was correct. People like Kruger were the exact antithesis of those whose cosseted lifestyles he protected; the clean, the refined, the polite and the affected and the superficial. She hated to say it, but there was a refreshing realism about the men in front of her, and despite everything and despite herself, she couldn't help but admire that quality. These guys adopted no airs and graces; they were working class, ghetto tough guys, with no aspirations to be anything but a more wealthy version of themselves. Kruger had been blessed with an inordinate amount of time to change or tone down his accent, but it was obviously something on which he refused to compromise. The tattoos and distinguishing marks, which she was certain he would have had prior to conscription, may have had to go, but the essence of who he was remained. And that, in itself, was extremely alluring.

Because, for an Elysian woman, Kruger was the ultimate bit of rough – the type that someone like Talar could only dream of experiencing – and the fact that he took pride in it, revelled in it, made it all the more attractive.

*_Oh shut up. He's revolting through and through. Even when he's clean he's revolting._*

*_Just you keep telling yourself that, darling._*

*_Rape isn't attractive. Neither is torture or murder._*

*_Of course. But he won't be doing any of those things to _you_._*

*_Maybe not overtly..._*

The dissenting voice shut up, but Talar would have been a fool to conclude victory over it. That voice spoke from a place she wished could be banished, or didn't exist; that same place that, upon her first meeting with Kruger, refused to abide by sensibility or morality or cold, hard logic, because it simply didn't operate on that level. Be it primal fear masquerading as desire, or primal desire in its own right, the effect was the same.

"You still there?" his coarse voice prompted her, much to the amusement of his comrades, wrenching Talar from a trance she had obliviously slipped into.

*_Shit..._*

She hadn't zoned out for more than a beat, but it was long enough to prove telling. Although underplayed, she could discern the vaguest of smirks upon his lips, the faintest glint of knowing in his iris-less eyes. The speedometer of her heart began to climb.

Internally, she cursed again. This was not right. Not right at all.

*_Get it together now or you're going to go under,* _her resolve warned, staring her point blank in the eye whilst gripping her shoulders and forcibly shaking her. *_Do it!_*

Fortunately, it was just about the kick she needed.

"Did you and the others go to Las Vegas last night?"

He surveyed her for a split second, his expression neutral as a poker player's, before replying with a brusque "Why?".

How she could have been so short-sighted, she didn't know. Of all the things she had anticipated, him immediately turning the question around wasn't one of them. It was such a simple tactic, and yet she had overlooked it. The tightly woven fabric of the Talar Sampson she had always relied upon had begun to fray at the edges, hadn't it? Was it the atmosphere down here on Earth? Something to do with the difference in air quality, or gravity, assuming there was one at all? Or could it be separation anxiety? She refused to believe one man alone, in such a short period of time, could have dismantled her to such an extent, no matter how domineering his character.

The wolf was observing his prey, casually awaiting her answer, every moment of her silence, her paralysis, a small victory. She had to think of something, and fast. She would not be dead meat today.

As luck would have it, having taken an independent tour of the city's main attractions the day she arrived, she knew exactly the thing. She would just have to pray he wouldn't catch her in a lie.

"Because I think I saw you at the Mandalay Bay," she ventured, clasping at every shred of hope that she was coming across more confident than she felt; and that, more importantly, he would buy it.

"Did you now?" he parried her, vaguely quizzical.

Mercifully, on the surface she managed to hold firm. Inside, however, panic began to stir as he continued to scrutinize her. Men like him, trained in interrogation, were likewise trained in the art of sniffing out deception. They knew the tells, from the most blatant to the most subtle.

Yeah, lying had been _such_ a smart move.

Well, what was done was done. She had to get on with it and stay calm, stay calm, just stay calm. She could do it. She was better than this. She _knew_ she was better than this. Better than _him_.

"The all night pool party, at about 2am."

A broad, unnerving grin spread slowly across his face, exhibiting startlingly white teeth. Talar's first thought was to wonder how a human ashtray could have teeth so white they could be seen from space. Then came the rebounding panic, alongside the realization that her posture had become a little rigid upon telling the second lie. The panic may not have registered on her face, but it certainly would be evident from her stance; judging by which, it was already too late. The wolf's teeth were bared now, not primed to pounce and tear into her yet, but just to remind her of their deathly sharpness, of what they _could_ do. Even if he hadn't yet sussed out her lie, at the very least he had detected her nervousness, her vulnerability.

"Well," she feigned stoicism and forced herself to continue, although the little duck legs in her mind paddled frantically to maintain buoyancy and keep moving, just keep moving, "it certainly looked like your group."

*_Come on, come on, come on!_* she urged Botha, who remained out of shot. She cared less now about ascertaining an honest answer from Kruger, than having to engage with him at all. Dear God, she was a prize moron for even contemplating trying in the first place. The idiom 'curiosity killed the cat' had never seemed so damn apt. There would be no such nine lives for this little feline, even in Schroedinger's parallel universe.

"You should have come and said hello," said the lupine, sarcasm dripping from his charismatic tone. "Off duty and all that, y'know?"

Talar didn't allow herself to pause, to agonize over the veracity of his response or deliberate on her own. She just had to plough straight ahead, otherwise she would lose that hard-earned momentum.

"Not enough time. I had to head home."

"Too bad," he replied nonchalantly.

"Still, I'm glad you enjoyed yourselves."

"And I'm sorry you couldn't have stayed."

"Well, I'm not like you military people who can stay awake for three, four days at a time. I need a good six hours per night to be anywhere near functional."

"You haven't lived, sweetheart."

*_Yuu avn't livd, sweethawt._* Truth be told, he was right.

She feigned an over-emphatic sigh. "I guess not, Agent Kruger."

Please could he stop talking now? Fair enough, she wouldn't get her answer; she would just have to take Botha's as gospel. It didn't matter any more. Just make this talking ashtray, and the conflict he incited within her, leave her alone.

Whether by fate or miraculous coincidence, Drake interjected "Hey Delilah!"

*_Thank you, thank you, thank you!_* Talar's inner voice praised him. Her audible voice, however, said "Excuse me?"

"You know, the Bible? Sampson & Delilah?"

If Kruger minded the interruption, he certainly wasn't showing it. And if Talar minded the insolence, she was too relieved to acknowledge it herself.

"_I_ do," she replied. "I'm surprised _you_ do."

"Drakey boy's just full of surprises, aren't you boet?" cackled the bearded man.

So perhaps he did mind?

"So can we each get two Castle lagers please Delilah?" Drake continued.

Expressionless, Talar pointed to the droids.

"Uh, it's within our statutory rights to be served by you."

"And as your superior it's within _my_ statutory rights to point you to the proper bar staff. In fact, it's my obligation. If I wanted a job as maitre de I'd have to fill out a separate application form."

"Give it up, boet," said Kruger, sighing heavily. "Ain't no getting round this one. Bureaucracy talks and fuckerage walks, as they say."

A second miracle happened then, in the form of Botha re-emerging. A flick of Talar's gaze over to him alerted the wolf to his arrival. Immediately Kruger turned to look, the same way a predator guarding his kill followed every tiny sign and signal that a potential threat was encroaching on his territory, before deeming the younger man nonthreatening, and thusly turning back to his prey. Despite the lack of challenge Botha posed to his older comrade, Talar didn't miss the split second of pure covetousness that blazed in Kruger's predacious eyes, followed by a fleeting but equally obvious flash of smug satisfaction at that very covetousness not being lost on her.

*_You're mine and you know it,_* said the look.

How dare he.

If at that moment Talar could have acted with impunity, and without consequence, she would have been sorely tempted to grab a full bottle from one of the shelves and smack Agent 32 Alpha 21b in the face with it. But whilst her indignation privately seethed, her professional side knew without any shadow of a doubt that she had to hold steady; and fortunately, it registered before it was too late. She simply couldn't afford any more defeats to him today. Absolutely not. She refused to be drawn into his game for the second time.

But why, then, was the look she shot back at him more one of defiance than indifference? Almost as if, deep down, in that deviant and self-destructive part of her subconscious, she wanted to defy _herself_ as much as him?

*_Uh oh!_* delighted the Schadenfreude demon. *_Look who just made a _very_ big mistake!_*

Because Kruger had already swooped on the opportunity. The look he gave her now said only one thing: the game was on.

Delacourt's cronies must have done this, hours following the interview last week - snuck into her annex when she was asleep, drugged her, and implanted some sort of DNA-interfacing neural chip that would unleash a form of mental illness onto a previously stable, if not a little different, mind. She was an experiment; a walking study in fabricated psychological manipulation, that, if successful, would be used as a weapon against Elysium's defectors and enemies. And what an ideal candidate she made: a relative outsider; few connections; no droids guarding her annex; and with a workplace literally a world away from home. "She was a disaster waiting to happen" they would say, when she ended up straight-jacketed and slumped in a padded cell, after some heinous crime involving multiple murders and attempted suicide. "We always knew there was something 'off' about her; but of course, we dismissed it." Yes, being the egalitarians that they were, they dismissed it. Of course. "We wanted to give her a chance. Being on Earth just happened to be the real catalyst." No wonder Delacourt had behaved with such amicability – her plan was coming together marvellously, and the devious little bitch simply couldn't contain herself.

If only. _If only. _Because even that was preferable to what was really going on.

The lupine turned, cawing to the approaching man: "Hey Botha, what are you–"

Seemingly unphased, Botha completed the distance, drawing up at the far end of the bar beside Crowe, who merely nodded at him.

"-today's entertainment or the anti-climax?"

The group erupted into a snickering little choir. Botha just gave a curt smile, in a manner suggesting that he accommodated Kruger's little trivialities without a hitch. Nevertheless, she felt for the poor guy.

"Either way things are looking pretty dire, folks!" the boss continued, either oblivious to Botha's well-played reaction, or impervious to it. "I'm gonna make like a C-Max prisoner and bail." He waved at one of the droids: "Two Castle Lagers and a Jager bomb, guys!"

Whilst awaiting his drinks – what must have been no longer than 5 seconds but seemed more like a horrible, drawn out minute - he fixed his ruthless gaze on Talar; steady, immovable, and utterly determined. And despite everything, she was trapped there, right where he wanted her. It was a moment in which all possible thought deserted her, along with the very ability to think at all. She was wholly and completely stuck in that moment, where nothing else existed except herself and that one, leering hellion. She had never felt, never known, anything like it, anyone like _him_; and she had never been more terrified.

The drinks arrived, and, with a hint of a smirk, Kruger severed the contact. He stepped toward his beleaguered underling, pausing beside him. Talar noticed, then, that the rest of the group had fallen silent. Leaning in uncomfortably close, the bearded man said in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone, but nevertheless loud enough for the group to hear: "Remember, boytije, it's not the size that counts; it's how you use it, right? I'm sure she won't be disappointed!" One flick of a look – a highly suggestive look, at that - in Talar's direction, and then, buoyed by the laughter of his team, he strode off toward the seating section in the far left corner.

Talar had to summon all her strength not to grimace.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN**

My continued thanks to the usual suspects for the usual things, and to the readers and reviewers whose praise never fails to keep me motivated.

Please allow 1-3 weeks for the next update.

* * *

**CHAPTER 9**

A twilight capture looking into the fiery depths of Turkmenistan's Darvaza/Derweze gas crater morphed onto the screen as the rest of the group, save Botha, ordered their drinks. They were already otherwise engaged in conversation, ignoring him and Talar, which she found preferable to any discourse. She watched them with only mild interest as they went to sit with their boss, who had since placed a packet of cigarettes on the table and was holding one to his lips, a lighter in the other hand. The moment the last man took his seat, Kruger lit his cigarette, and the screens instantly enclosed the area, like some hyper-vigilant quarantine measure.

Botha, meanwhile, seemed to occupy himself with the photograph. Once the screens were fully erected, Talar followed his gaze.

"They call that place _The Gate to Hell_," he explained. "It's a natural gas crater that's been burning since 1971. Not sure if it's _still_ going naturally, but it's always an awesome sight."

"1971? It's almost as old as your boss over there."

He laughed, although there was a definite sardonic tinge to it. "Yep. I doubt he'll ever stop burning. Others come and go but he's still here."

"Listen," she said carefully, "I don't mean to pry, and I'm sure you hardly need my help, but if you ever want to just... offload about him in complete confidence, then I'm here."

The Cape Colored smiled warmly. "Likewise."

"You handle it all very well, but we all get irritated at times. And we're in a similar boat, so please do feel free. It wouldn't violate any protocols so there's nothing to worry about."

"You too, Miss...Ms?-"

"Just call me Talar."

He offered his hand. "Anies."

She accepted the handshake, noting how it lacked the roughness, the calloused thumb pads, that the other men had. In fact, Botha's skin felt incongruously soft, in the same way as his eyes radiated a distinct, genuine pleasantness that seemed notably absent in the others; especially Kruger.

"Well, Anies," she said affirmatively, "I've got another question about your boss."

"Shoot," he replied openly.

"How much does he smoke?"

Botha eyed her suspiciously, responding in a jokey tone: "You concerned about his health?"

"No. I'll leave that to the medbays."

He tittered. "Yeah, he certainly tests them to the limits of their capabilities."

"Oh?"

"Am I allowed to go into personal details?"

She paused, thinking. "To be quite honest, I'm not sure. As long as it's nothing scandalous I doubt it'll be much of a problem. Anyway, as I'm the one who's doing the asking, it'll be on me."

"If you're comfortable with that?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"OK. Well, he's had lung cancer twice since I've known him."

"Twice?!"

"Yep. Whenever he's here, those screens are up from the moment he sits down, virtually to the moment he leaves. He doesn't always smoke on missions, but off duty he's like a smoking version of that gas crater pit. I've seen him smoke two in one go on more than one occasion."

Talar laughed. "But his teeth are so white!"

"I know. I have no idea how he does it. Maybe they're caps?" He shrugged.

"You smoke?"

"Quit five years ago, haven't looked back."

"Wow. I've been trying to _quit_ for five years!"

"It's tough, man. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"Must be tough, being around Kruger."

"It used to be, but it's fine now. I never even have cravings."

"Well, kudos to you. I'll let you know if I ever get there! Unless you want to be my sponsor?" She winked.

"That's a possibility." A mischievousness glint shone back at her.

"I'm having a house warming party the weekend after this one," she lied; although she knew it wouldn't be a lie for much longer. For Elysian residents, there were no restrictions travelling in and out of the torus; none of this passport malarkey that was so stringently enforced between territories on Earth, or even the requisite paying of fares. Although she hadn't planned any such house warming event, getting her family and friends down here for one would be a cinch. "If you're interested, you can start try out your sponsoring skills then?"

A charming grin spread across the Cape Colored's face. "I can try."

"Is that cell phone private? It doesn't look like CCB issue."

"It's private."

"Mine is, too."

They went about exchanging numbers, little flutters of joy in Talar's heart at her success.

"I should be getting back," she said resignedly, replacing her phone in her fitted pocket of her tailor-made Mulberry dress.

Botha gave an understanding nod.

"I'll text you the details la-"

All of a sudden, the screens zipped back down, giving way to an outpouring of raucous chatter from the male group. Unsurprisingly, the dominant voice happened to be Kruger's. For some reason, though, it halted her in her tracks. There was just something so elusively arresting about the vivacity with which he spoke, that made her want to stop and observe. Maybe it was mere morbid curiosity? Or perhaps it was for the simple fact that, in contrast to what Botha had said, he hadn't lit a second cigarette the moment he had finished the first one. Nothing more than a passing fancy, though, Talar assumed.

What if he wanted her to overhear the conversation, though? Was this some sort of a test to gage her interest in him? Should she really allow herself to give him the satisfaction?

*_Come on. Once can't hurt, can it?_*

*_I wouldn't be so sure._*

*_Well it'll just be the once. He can think what he wants. _I_ know I'm not playing into it, and that's all that matters._*

*_You said that about cigarettes - "just the once". And look where you are now._*

*_Yes, but nicotine is an actual drug._*

*_And you can absorb it by osmosis, simply by being near to that talking ashtray over there._*

*_So what's the problem then?_*

But the contesting voice had already vanished.

"We really never got past that part?" the bearded man said incredulously.

"Not that I remember," Khumalo answered.

"Awww, I can't believe that. Really?!"

"You told us," replied Crowe, pointing to Drake and then himself.

"But no-one else?!"

Swanepoel, Mhlungu and Khumalo shook their heads in unison.

"Fuck... I could've sworn I've only told this story to everyone I know. Maybe I'm getting dementia."

"In all due respect, Boss," said Drake, "you're too crazy for dementia."

"Ain't that the fucking truth!" the boss cracked, to an uproarious wave of laughter from the rest of the men.

Botha nudged Talar, alerting her to the fact that she was, in fact, staring at the group. Fortunately, they seemed too absorbed in the conversation to have noticed.

"Sorry, I-" she began, but Botha interrupted her with concessionary gesture.

"Be that as it may, boys," Kruger continued after the laughter had died down, "I'll tell it again. So anyway, long story short he accidentally ends up killing the cat. Then what does he do? Any reasonable person would just fess up and take the punishment, right? But not Dozzy. Oh no. Dozzy always chooses the stupidest route of egress possible. What Dozzy does _isn't_ bury the cat in the back yard, because the mountains of kak in that yard... believe me I think the missing Tonga rubgy team got lost there, never to be seen again. No, he decides to try and flush the damn thing down the toilet. Then of course, after he's attempted it, the cat gets stuck right at the bottom and now the toilet's blocked, and he tries to pull it out but it's stuck. So he runs to my house and is pounding on my door, and my mum answers and then comes and says to me "your friend's here and he's _hysterical_," so I come to the door and he's just talking at me frantically like "quick quick! You gotta come over! I'm gonna be in serious kak if you don't come over now!"."

Still none of them appeared to know, or at the very least to care, that their superior was eavesdropping.

"So I go over to his house and find this cat stuck in the toilet, and I say "don't worry, I got this." Swear to God I thought the guy was gonna kiss me, he was so pleased. So I get right on the phone to Carson – this older kid who my eldest brother hung out with in those days – because he once told me, as you do, that he devised this ingenious set up of unblocking toilets. I didn't know what it was, but I reckoned there was nothing to lose by finding out. And he's brilliant; he's at the door in less than ten minutes.

Anyway, in all my life I never imagined what I'm about to describe to you, and I've seen a lot of things, believe me. Carson's this really stout little guy, and when I say stout I mean, remember that missing Tonga rugby team I mentioned a minute ago? Well he looks like he ate them . Like a snake that swallows a pig or similarly large animal. So, he literally drops his pants, sits on the bowl – because Dozzy's toilet doesn't have a seat – and he's bouncing up and down about an inch off the bowl, going at it really hard like he's doing something completely different, eh. But what he's actually doing is pure science in motion; he's creating a vacuum by forcing air into the bowl. There he is, going 'schooop.. blph...schooop...blph' with his hideous little obese arse cheeks, for the better part of 30 minutes. And he's sweating and panting, and it's really... Anyway, Dozzy and I are practically crying with laughter, it's so fucking surreal. Then suddenly there's this gurgling, grunting noise, and Carson stands up... eh voila! Problem solved. And there's the dead cat, floating in the bowl, and then Carson says "I take it you don't want this?", and Dozzy's like "be my guest". So Carson says he'll take it home and feed it to his dog, which he did. Finest example I've ever seen of killing two birds with one stone."

Through the ensuing eruption of guffaws, Kruger put another cigarette in his mouth, and then, before lighting up – and Talar felt it coming, but didn't have time to bolt or duck – looked directly at her, as if missile directed to her eyeballs. Perhaps it was the shock of him knowing she had been listening – that she had been found out - but she felt her heart clench painfully. It was an indistinct expression, not overtly malicious or even smug; more like a cursory check that she was still there. Evidently satisfied, he lit up, turning back to the group. The screens shot back up.

She looked back to Botha, who was again occupying himself with the pretty photographs. She felt the gnawing need to apologize to him.

"I..." she began, "I don't usually get distracted easily. It's just that-"

He placed a gentle hand on her arm; a tender touch reserved for a friend or loved one. If he was at all miffed by not having her undivided attention, then he was willing to make more concessions for her.

"It's fine," he said reassuringly. "Text me, yeah?"

"I will."

He smiled cordially, and she tried to return the gesture; but, due to the lingering embarrassment, it came out more awkward than sincere. She hoped he would understand that, too.

* * *

The infinite sky above wasn't visible from Las Vegas. Las Vegas, with its ceaseless frenzy of activity, its light pollution, and its ever present smog, truly never closed for business. Even in the mystical pre-dawn hours it was crammed, the jet laggers and insomniacs taking the place of the after workers, party goers and day walkers. And no hour was short on Elysians. No-one could get bored here, and no-one had to be lonely if they didn't want to be.

Out here in the desert, however, there was none of that. In place of towering buildings and blinding lights stretched only 360 degree vistas of forever. The moon, stars, galaxies, satellites, and the torus. Talar wondered if anyone up there was looking through a telescope right now, looking directly at her. Would they know she was one of them, or would they mistake her for just another anonymous Earthling? Had anyone else ever lived out here, she wondered? If Earth was as over-populated as many Elysians purported it to be, and space was at such a premium, why had no-one thought to build in places like this? If life was sustainable for her here, why not for others?

Because the others, all but the wealthiest Earthlings, didn't matter, did they? The Elysian authorities had probably bought up the land themselves, acres upon acres of it, just in case any such CCB employee happened to take a job down here. Never mind that in the long run having Earthlings live here, in Armadyne-constructed housing, could do wonders for the planet's economy, which would in turn benefit Elysium's; short term profit was all that mattered, it seemed. One Elysian was worth more than an entire city of impoverished Earth born. Or perhaps Talar was just an idealist who knew nothing about the finer points of economics. Because things were never really that simple, were they? If she knew anything it was that idealism didn't work.

A whisper of a breeze started up around her, too gentle to drag up any dust, although it elicited the strangest feeling, as if it were trying to alert her to something. At midnight she had gone outside, for the second night in a row, after completely failing to catch any sleep whatsoever. Having the light on may have made her feel more irrationally secure, but it was certainly a hindrance where sleep was concerned. So, she had dragged a sun-lounger from the garden through the house and out front, the wrapped herself up and lay down on the cushioned but chill plastic, listening to the sound of absolute stillness. In the back of her mind, she heard the demon from earlier on, musing on whether Kruger's Raven would fly over again.

*_Perhaps you should touch yourself and moan his name,_* the demon had suggested with a dark chuckle.

Despite an uncharacteristically strong hunger in her loins, she hadn't masturbated that evening, too unnerved by the swirling mess in her head to want to risk conjoring up any thoughts of that particular South African... with his voice like wire wool on sandpaper, his cigarette scent, his high cheekbones accentuated by those metal facial implants, and his rapacious glare. She wanted Botha on her mind, and only Botha – a man who seemed to be the very antithesis of Kruger - and if that wasn't possible then it wasn't worth endangering her sanity. Whilst her rational mind retained its faculties, she knew now that it wouldn't be guaranteed the last word on anything any more. The demon had set up home, and she had no way of knowing what would rouse it, and when it would choose to engage in arguments.

She didn't suppose she had been laying there for more than twenty minutes, but she checked her watch anyway.

It was approaching 0130 hours again, and-

*_What?_*

There was no way she had been out here for nearly ninety minutes. Half an hour, tops. Yet, her watch said differently.

She must have fallen asleep.

The breeze grew a fraction stronger, ghosting over her face and teasing the ends of her hair. The elusive feeling re-emerged. Perhaps it was telling her to go back inside now and try once more to get some proper sleep. Or could it be some ancient, deep-rooted human instinct, in tune with elements, that could sense an impending, drastic change in the weather? Having never truly experienced real weather except for in the parks, it was something with which she was mostly unfamiliar, so having this sixth sense awaken would naturally feel strange. Maybe it was going to rain soon? The sky being currently cloudless didn't mean that a storm wasn't gathering elsewhere, moving steadily closer. Perhaps there would be thunder and lightning, too?

The big kid in her wanted to stay outside and await the downpour. She wanted to get _caught_ in the downpour, feel what it was really like to have rain pelt your skin and soak your hair and clothes. Genuine rain, in an unsimulated environment.

"You haven't lived, sweetheart."

*_What-_*

Startled, she jumped up from her chair. She was sure she had heard it. His voice. The same mocking phrase, with its accordingly derisive tone, from earlier.

She spun round to face her house, ten meters away. Her eyes having adjusted to the darkness, she could see that the door remained closed. She had locked it after closing it, in the event that any spiders decided to sneak in. Huntsman spiders and Carolina wolf spiders were common in arid areas, Yasmin had delighted in teasing her; the Carolinas being the biggest species of wolf spider in North America. Both were large spiders in general - the size of a 'small' tarantula.

_Wolf_ spiders.

He was here. That was what the breeze was – residual murmurs of a craft ascending into the sky... or hovering up there, its lights off.

No, that was ludicrous. She couldn't imagine those crafts were deathly silent. Had anything landed in the vicinity she would have woken up. And if any such craft were hovering above her, its lights would surely be on.

*_How do you know it didn't land miles away, and he walked here then shot you from a distance with a target-specific tranquilizer dart? How do you know he didn't shoot you from the _craft_ with a tranquilizer dart?_*

Gripped by panic, she turned a slow 360 degrees, scanning the sky for the tell-tale blinks of red, green and white. Nothing... because now... yes, there were clouds, obscuring even the brightest of stars. As if suddenly having materialized from absolute nowhere, clouds flooded the sky. The breeze was picking up, too, now potent enough to agitate the dust. So she would get to experience rain after all; she would get to _live_.

But no, no, she couldn't stay out here, waiting for _him_ to tire of waiting her out.

But she couldn't go back in. Who knew what awaited her in there? Would it just be him, or had he brought his buddies, too?

*_I've raped women better than you._*

She had been set up, she just knew it. Everything, from Andrew Chisholm's 'death' to her landing a job here and choosing this specific house, was merely a deftly-orchestrated ruse to get rid of her. Why, she couldn't fathom. What in the world had she done to warrant eliminating? Or had one of her immediate relatives done something to warrant the elimination of the entire family? And Delacourt had chosen the nastiest of the nasty for sweet little Talar, hadn't she? Why else would she have been allowed to view the man's files?

*_No, no, no..._*

Him, or one of his team alone would be enough to take her out. A whole group of them, and she may as well give up hope now. What if they _all_ decided to rape her? Khumalo and Mlungu too had racked up several sexual offenses against women.

*_Stop it, Talar. STOP. IT._*

She had to stop panicking; that was what Kruger wanted. She couldn't let herself think so fatalistically either, let alone admit immediate defeat. He wanted her confused, disorientated, and incapacitated with fear. She couldn't give in to him; she _wouldn't_. There was no conspiracy against her. Neither was anyone going to off her or her family, least of all by Kruger's hands. There had to be a way through this through whatever it was he wanted; and even if there wasn't, she owed it to herself to at least try. Perhaps his intentions were no more sinister than simply to scare her. He would have been caught on camera, and, having no way of disabling them, the locks, and the house droids without arousing suspicion, there would have been no way of him forcing an entry either. Thus, he had to be outside, either behind or in the garden, and-

But what if he had employed some remote devices to kill the security from afar?

Well, if that had happened, there was nothing left but to go back in and confront him.

*_Inhale, exhale, long and slow. Good. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Thaaaat's right._*

Leaving the sun-lounger to its sodden fate, she began walking towards the house, towards the waiting wolf, more tentatively than she would have liked; but it was the best she could do.

*_Why Grandma, what a big gun you have! One in your hand and another in your pocket!_*

*_Quiet, you._*

*_Hey, lighten the fuck up. I'm just trying to diffuse the tension here._*

*_Liar._*

*_Fine, have it your way!_*

Struck by a thought, she stopped, two meters from the door. If she could get him to come round to the front, or outside if he happened to be within, she would at least have chance to run to the sun-lounger and try to grab it, use it against him. Although sturdy, it was lightweight enough for her to lift and swing through the air if she really put all her effort into it. Inside the house it wasn't quite spacious enough to break into a proper run without tripping over an object, and in the garden he would have the chance of throwing her into the pool and drowning her.

"Listen," she called out with surprising calm, "wherever you are, I'm near the door. Come here and let's talk."

No response. She waited one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds. Still nothing. Maybe he wasn't in the mood to negotiate.

"I know you're here. I know you can hear me. Please, just come to where I'm standing."

Still nothing. Maybe he didn't fancy getting soaked, either.

The atmosphere surrounding her seemed much closer now, heavy and dense; and the electricity had thickened, almost as if tiny, invisible livewires danced in the air, pricking and prickling her skin. Her heart decided to re-announce itself by starting up a frantic drumming... or perhaps it had been drumming away like that for minutes, and she simply hadn't noticed? She noticed, too, that her palms were clammy.

Another ten seconds of silence.

"I promise I won't report you."

More blankness.

"OK, listen. Whatever you want, tell me. If you just come here, whatever it is, we can talk. I'm no match for you and you know it. Where am I going to run to? I'm not. You've got nothing to lose."

Yet more silence.

*_Fucksake._*

*_OK, _you_ listen. What if he's not actually here at all? What if you just imagined that you heard him? You fell asleep, you were still dozy. Maybe you were even half dreaming?_*

*_I heard his voice loud and clear_.*

*_Remember what Doctor Fritz said about hypnagogic hallucinations? You were convinced they were real, too._*

She did remember. During her fifteenth year, she frequently awoke into a state of absolute paralysis, whilst a snarling, gleaming-toothed animal, lion-sized and made of smoke, pawed at her lower legs, scraped its teeth against them as if tenderizing her before taking a bite. Although it lasted no more than half a minute, before dissolving into thin air, it had seemed so absolutely, unshakably real. She had heard its snarls and low growls then, clear as day, and she had felt the smooth surface of its enamel, together with the conflicting softness of its paw pads, uncomfortable scrape of its claws, and gentle waft of its smoky, charcoal-colored fur. Fearing for her sanity, her parents had taken her to Dr. Fritz, who had assured them that this was a harmless, surprisingly common condition known as 'sleep paralysis', in which patients experienced all manner of sensory hallucinations when slipping into or out of sleep, when the mind was active but the body already or still sleeping. Nothing to worry about, he had said. It would clear up of its own accord. He had been right, of course; less than a fortnight later, the smoke animal had vanished, only to return a handful of times ever since.

*_But I was always paralysed at the time. When I heard Kruger, I jumped straight up._*

*_You were laying down when you heard him. You hadn't even thought of moving until after then._*

*_But I did move. I was always paralysed for thirty seconds before._*

*_You might have been awake before then and weren't aware of it._*

Well, that seemed feasible. Nevertheless, it didn't mean she hadn't hallucinated. Either way, she couldn't stand there forever. She would have to go in now, regardless.

The rain began literally the moment she reached the door, before she had the chance to see whether or not it was properly closed. It came on incredibly strong; fast, hard, and startlingly insistent, as if desperate to purge some ill from above, or crush whatever lay below. She paused for an extended moment, mesmerized by the downpour, battering the sun-lounger. She had watched hard rain before, in the parks, even danced around in it, but seeing it on Earth felt so much more...real. Beautiful, almost.

Eventually she turned around to the door... finding it ever so slightly ajar, thanks to a small wooden stopper wedged between the threshold and the door itself.

She gulped audibly. Her throat constricted. He _was_ in there.

*_Don't panic, please…_* she urged herself, whilst trying to formulate something resembling a plan of action. *_Nothing's changed in the last few minutes. You knew he was here then, and you know for definite now. And you also know that he-_*

*_Shit, no..._*

If he had disabled the locks, he would have outed the cameras, too, no doubt about it. The guy may have been keen to get in, but he wasn't stupid or desperate enough to do so without any precaution. He had planned this. Botha hadn't known it, but the flight over her house yesterday was no mere coincidence. She should have trusted her instincts. She should have known...

But then, what good would it have done her anyway? It wasn't as if she could have reported Kruger until the actual event, even if she had stayed inside, by which time it would have been too late, as he obviously had the means to enter.

No precise plan came to her. She had nothing on her that could constitute a weapon, nor anything in the house readily to hand. She hadn't expected she would ever need to. The nearest sharp objects were the knives in the cutlery draws; but the kitchen was past the living room and then the dining room, which, even with a semi open-plan setting, suddenly seemed impossibly far away. Furthermore, in the living room itself she owned little in the way of readily fling-able objects, let alone any that would have any lasting impact against a highly trained, very physically capable and pain-tolerant military veteran. Her bedroom lay even further away, leaving little chance of even making it to there and grabbing her antiperspirant spray or perfume. The master bathroom stood to the left, running parallel with the dining room, but around the property's only blind corner, therefore allowing no opportunity to dive in and swipe the bathroom scales.

*_Take off your jacket and throw that, then. Nothing to lose._*

If that was all she had, then it had to trump nothing, right?

She removed her jacket, oblivious to the chill outside air, and with her left hand clasped it to her chest. Another deep breath, and cautiously she pushed the door open, venturing forward into the dark interior. She had left a living room lamp on to guide her way, but her assailant had obviously switched it off. Her bedroom door far ahead was closed, with no light seeping through the minuscule sliver beneath. Immediately she craned her arm out to the wall at her right, fumbling for the light switch. The front door creaked as it slowly attempted to close behind her, emitting a gentle wooden swoosh as the stopper prevented it from completing its course. Wherever the intruder was, the lack of any other sound would have accentuated that of her entry.

Light flooded the room, temporarily blinding her. He could have struck then, but he didn't. Seconds later, her vision adjusted to reveal no difference than when she had left. She wasn't sure whether she had expected to find the place ransacked, the transparent wall dividers shattered and items strewn everywhere... yet, apart from the dining room light having been switched off, there was absolutely no sign of entry or disturbance at all. Alarmingly, there was also no sign of the droids.

She paused, listening. No tell tale sounds of footsteps or even breaths other than her own, although she could hear her own heartbeat loud enough. No footprints on the polished marble floor. The glass divider to her left – transparent, too - which functioned as a wall, hid nothing. Neither were there any hiding spaces in the living or dining room. He had to be ducking down in the kitchen; behind one of the closed doors – either of the two bedrooms; the master bathroom; the two toilets; outside in the garden...or in the underground garage. She should go to the kitchen, where she could grab a knife or a skewer or something similarly pointed and sharp. Even if it transpired to be completely futile, or even counterproductive, it could elevate her chances from zero to zero point five.

Cautiously, she removed her slippers and began to traverse the space that would have otherwise comprised the hallway. It seemed to take forever, the clear wall dividers not only creating the illusion of open-plan spaciousness, but now seeming to physically exaggerate it. The kitchen drew closer, although the breakfast bar obscured her view of half the floor space. A silent mantra running through her head - *_please don't let him be there, please don't let him be there_* - she crept forward.

Four steps until the kitchen table. Five until the breakfast bar. Six to see over it. She could make it.

Her movements slowed to a snail's pace, although her heart seemed to compensate for it in both speed and volume. Tiny beads of sweat began forming at her temples and around her hairline, and the hair at the back her neck seemed to cling, itchy and slightly damp. Her pyjamas, too, now chafed rather than comforted, and the jacket she held now felt like a scratchy mess of static.

Six steps...

Pause. Deep, trembling breath.

Five steps...

Pause again.

Four...

Three. She reached the table.

Two. She stood level with the breakfast bar.

*_OK, this is it..._*

One step-

And she peered over. Nothing.

*O_h thank God.. Thank you... Thank you God.._*

But no droids either.

She tiptoed to the cutlery draw, squinting and holding her breath as she gently eased it open, before grabbing a steak knife. It took another agonizingly slow few seconds to close the draw, but she managed it.

She took a moment to compose herself, before deciding to head towards her bedroom, rather than through the kitchen's floor-to-ceiling sliding door to the garden.

For an instant she considered calling to him again, asking him to come into the main space. He knew she was in the house, so what more harm could it do? Much less harm than having her walk into the more confined space of the bedrooms or bathroom.

Yet, she felt the strongest suspicion that he wasn't going to comply. This was a man who must have participated in innumerable stakeouts, who hid and lived behind enemy lines until the moment to strike, and who, more importantly, could survive days at a time without sleep. Patience and tenacity were very much virtues of his, when necessary. She could call him, plead with him, beg him, or even just sit out here and wait indefinitely for him to emerge, and it would do no good.

She could leave the house.

No, she couldn't - the stairs to the underground garage were around that one blind corner at the side of the toilets. And he was as likely to be down there as anywhere else.

Nothing for it then but to try her bedroom, come what may.

Slowly she approached the door, then drew another, almost painfully deep breath, before wrapping her hand around the stainless steel handle.

*_Wait!_*

*_What?_*

*_Just think about this for a moment-_*

*_About what?_*

*_Why would Kruger risk his job just to frighten you?_*

*_How should I know? And if he's not here then why was the front door open? Why was the light off and my bedroom door closed? And where are the droids?_*

*_There has to be a rational explanation. You're tired and stressed. You probably did things without thinking._*

*_I'm tired but I'm not absent minded._*

*_Just stay in the living room for a little longer until you've calmed down. Then everything will be fine._*

*_No it won't. And if I stand here arguing with myself much longer I might as well-_*

Out of the blue, she was grabbed from behind, a scream tearing from her throat. Powerful hands wrenched her backwards, spun her around and flung her mercilessly onto the cream marble, the jacket stolen from her left hand hand and the knife falling from her right and skirting out of reach as the motion overpowered her.

She yelped in both shock, terror and pain as she hit the ground forwards, her mind blank except for the absolute here and now. She wasn't even afforded time to try and scramble to her feet before cruel hands were clutching at her hair again, yanking her back to her feet, and an arm hooked around her neck, pressing harshly under her chin. The upper arm was clothed, its lower part naked, graced with soft, fine brown hairs. She smelled dust, musk, but most of all the almost overpowering residue of cigarette smoke; and she felt the leanness and heat of the body behind her. And she sensed particles of electricity.

The question of where the hell he could have come from, and how she hadn't heard him approaching, only registered as an afterthought. What did it matter now anyway?

"You've been thinking about me a lot, baby," he rasped in her ear, liquor heavy on his breath. "So let's see if I live up to your expectations."

Her heart went bezerk, and-

Talar had always thought waking into a cold sweat from a nightmare was a myth propagated by the movies. Yet, there she was, cold and clammy and soaking her pyjamas with sweat. Her bedside light cast a soothing golden glow, just as she had left it. Panting, she sat up, turning around to glance at her alarm clock. 0300 exactly. The witching hour, according to some.

*_Fuck!_*

She stayed in that position, waiting to recover from the shock, if only physically. After several protracted minutes her heart had lessened to a less obtrusive thud, and the dizziness and disorientation had cleared. The sweat still clung to her and the sheets beneath, though; she would need to change clothes, and have the droids change her bedsheets. A shower wouldn't go amiss either.

She shuffled out of bed, stripped, and on shaky legs exited the room, making sure to leave the door open. As she stepped into the makeshift corridor, with its clear, ¾ length and height glass divider for a wall to separate the bedrooms and master bathroom from the rest of the house, she switched on the central lights. A sigh of relief expelled itself upon seeing the droids stationed by the front door.

"Laundry. Bedclothes change," she called to them, before rounding the internal corner past the second bedroom, and then forward to the master bathroom.

She washed her hair quickly, and then began on her body, all the while applying more pressure to herself than she was used to, as if trying to forcefully remove a toxic substance from beneath her skin and scalp. It was all so ridiculous, so utterly absurd; she had 'known' Kruger for all of two days – eight, counting the first glimpse of his file – and not only was he on her mind more than Botha, but he had already become so deeply ingrained in her psyche that she was dreaming about him?

*_Oh..._* a shiver of pleasure ran through her upon the sponge making contact with her crotch, and another one as it soaped up her vulva. Her nipples began to respond, hardening a little. An image of that leering expression flashed through her mind, and the feeling of that arm crooked under her chin as his raspy voice wormed its way into her ear canal.

*_What?!_*

It made no sense, yet at the same time it made absolute sense. It was, she told herself again, simply her survival instincts kicking in. The more attracted she felt to him, the less afraid she would be in the event that he did try to rape her. That was it, and nothing more, right? OK, possibly the overabundance of testosterone and tobacco too, both of which played on her most primal instincts... or the instincts of any fertile woman, for that matter.

But how was it, then, that only Botha had a similar effect, if all the military agents were a bunch of walking testosterone cocktails? Well, to be fair, none of the others had as much tobacco in the mix.

*_Second time, same conclusion. Do you really need to analyze it further?_*

She didn't.

Ignoring the burst of sensation in her core, she finished showering, trying to keep her mind blank except for the intoxicating coconut and vanilla fragrances that now filled the room, mingling and dancing in a perfect marriage of piquant sweetness. It worked until she left the room, glancing her desk on the other side of the corridor divider, its laptop and satellite phone laying dormant. She couldn't keep this to herself; she had to talk to Yasmin. The CCB ran on USA Pacific Time Zone – perhaps one reason why the club and housing were stationed in Nevada – so, at 0315 hours, her friend would still be asleep. Still, that didn't mean Talar couldn't email her.

She went to her desk, sat down, then flipped open the slimline laptop and pulled up her email provider. She had a feeling there was en essay just waiting to get out.


End file.
